Beyond the Grave
by MouetteHeartsErik
Summary: EC. Five years after Christine married Raoul, they have returned to France with young Charles. Both know that Christine will never be free of her Angel, but Erik is dead and so they ignore their ghosts and try to be happy. But then an Angel reappears . .
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello everyone! Whittney here, with my first attempt at something (hopefully) beyond just E/C fluff. This story is set five years after the ending of Susan Kay's _Phantom_ (the "real" end, not the Raoul-comes-back-seventeen-years-later end). Erik is believed to have been dead these past five years, and in accordance the de Chagny family has taken vacations to France every winter. Little Charles is four years old, and there is a slight difference between this and Kay's: Raoul and Christine didn't get married until they both knew she was going to have Charles. (See if you can spot the point in this chapter where I am very bad and quote Kay almost directly). I know this chapter may appear a bit RC, but it isn't, I promise it is wholly EC. I'm just being nice to Raoul in this story.

Oh yes—I apologize for a very severe lack of Erik in the first few chapters . . . but he IS supposed to be dead, after all. wink

Chapter One: Her Son

_Christine_

Erik was dead.

She awoke every morning to that knowledge; the knowledge that the man she had learned to love beyond all reason had left her forever, shackled as she was to mortality. Five years had not given any ease to the pain in her heart; indeed, without Charles, she would have been content to slip into a catatonic oblivion.

_Thank you, bless you, Father, for Charles_. Getting out of bed was the hardest part of her day; to make this ordeal easier, Christine always first knelt by her bed and expressed her gratitude to Heaven for the gift of her boy. And then, after she had spoken the _amen_, with the hope that her Angel could still hear her, she would whisper _I love you_.

Raoul invariably knelt with her, and another prayer, a silent one of thanks would rise from her heart for his kindness. She knew that, far from praying with her for her sake, he too was sincerely grateful for Charles' existence—the only heart Charles was wrapped tighter around than his mother's, if possible, was that of the man he called Papa. Raoul had given them everything; his name, his home, his affectionate, gentle love, and—what she perhaps needed more than anything—his silent understanding. Every morning, without fail, he pretended not to hear that softly murmured _I love you_.

He knew it wasn't meant for him.

Christine did love Raoul, in a way; she had even grown into an easy sort of companionship with him. Together they were good parents, on the whole; Charles was adored, but he was also disciplined. And Christine was determined not to fall into the same sort of mental trap that, according to Erik, Madeline had. To Christine's mind, Madeline believed that because her child looked like a demon, it was inevitable he should act like one; Christine refused to believe that _her_ son would be unscrupulous simply because his father had been. In truth, Charles was certainly mischievous, but not more so than many boys and much less trouble than some.

He was a good child. But there were certain things that Christine could not deny, not even in the forefront of her mind where she lied to herself daily.

The first of these was that Charles had his father's gift. Not all of Erik's frighteningly prodigious genius, perhaps, but a certain un-childlike propensity toward the things Erik had mastered. His long, deft hands—which looked so odd attached to the wrists of a child—were remarkably adept at learning any task they were taught. He adored architecture, but seemed not to have inherited Erik's obsession with illusion. Charles wouldn't have, after all; there was no need. Like his father before him, however, it was in music that he found his dearest love. At four, Charles was a good, if not terribly complex, pianist, and he had begun to write short, simple original melodies that were unfailingly soothing. Christine loved to sing them; they were peaceful, and brought a layer of ease to her heart that she otherwise would not have known.

Even though she loved them, there were certain of his young compositions that she would not sing.

No matter how often or hard he begged, no matter how good he promised to be, Christine never sang one of his duets. She would sing to him, she would sing for him, she would sing any piece of music he placed before her, but she would not sing with him. Perhaps this was a harsh thing for a mother to deny her son, something that could be looked at as senseless and even cruel; but it was not something Christine could change. She did not refuse to sing with him because she disliked his singing; far from it. His voice was beautiful and pure and she could listen to it for hours on end.

That was the problem; that was the second thing that Christine could never deny about her child, no matter how much she may have wanted to: he had Erik's voice. And though she could _listen_ to him without hurt, singing _with_ Charles brought forward too many painful memories—memories of that same voice, matured and used with the skill of decades, harmonizing with her soul.

One of the few conversations Christine and Raoul had in which they acknowledged Charles' paternity was when they occasionally admitted to each other their fears that Charles had not only inherited Erik's voice, but also the strange ability to control other men that Erik had used so devastatingly. At four, it was impossible for them to tell, particularly when he was well-loved by their entire household—were his requests humored out of love, or was obedience compelled? Usually, however, they managed to put such thoughts out of their minds and concentrate on the day-to-day business of living.

Some mornings were more difficult for Christine than others; she knew this one would be the hardest yet. She lay awake for nearly an hour, lost in memory and not stirring even when she felt Raoul begin to awaken on the other side of their bed. It was only when a decidedly un-Raoul-like body jumped between them that Christine opened her eyes.

Charles, dressed half in his night-clothes and half in his day outfit, grinned at her from where he sat on the invisible line that divided the bed in two—the line between Raoul and Christine that had never been crossed. She smiled and sat up, holding her arms out for her son.

"What shall we do today, Mama?" Charles asked after seeking the comfort of her arms. His dark hair showed all signs of having avoided his nurses' combined attentions thus far; it was adorably mussed.

"Well," Christine replied, stroking his head "It is our first day back in France. Maybe we should just work on your lessons," she teased.

Beside her, Raoul snorted even as Charles protested. Hearing an ally, the boy wriggled out of Christine's hold and sat on Raoul's chest. Mock-groaning, the elder de Chagny asked, "What do _you_ think we should do today, son?"

"Is there snow, Papa?"

"Yes," Raoul drawled with a smile.

"Then we should go outside." Charles stated this as though it were the very pinnacle of reason. "We can build a snow-house, _oui_?"

Christine forced herself to smile at him. "Yes, Charles, we can build a snow-house. You appear to have lost your nannies; find them and get dressed, then . . ." her voice betrayed her with the slightest of pauses, "Papa and I will join you for breakfast. All right?"

"Yes mama," Charles turned guiltily at the knock on Christine and Raoul's—previously locked—bedroom door. At Raoul's beckon, Marie and Caron pulled entered and gave their young charge similar scolding looks. Christine considered herself fortunate to have found the pair of girls to watch over Charles when she could not; Marie and Caron were sisters, born a year apart, who had been daughters of a highly educated family. Tragedy had struck their home in the form of a fever, and they were left with only each other and mounting family debts. Both were quiet, good girls who enjoyed music; besides this, they were in their middle teens and quite capable of keeping up with a rambunctious and occasionally strong-minded boy.

"Come now, lad, you know you're not to be sneaking in here," Caron chided as Charles reluctantly slithered off the bed and walked toward them. "Let's finish getting you dressed, m'boy, and put some food in you before you think of doing anything else."

"Thank you, girls," Christine called after them as they firmly closed the door. She sighed, letting her smile drop, and pressed her forehead into one hand. "Where did he learn to pick locks? He's four." she murmured tiredly.

"I haven't the foggiest." Raoul got up and came around to her side of the bed. Kneeling down, he gave her a long look. "Come, Christine," he told her quietly, tugging on her hand. He hesitated for a moment, then in an even softer voice, added, "I know it hurts today, but you need to get up." She looked at him, a tiny half-smile pulling at the side of her mouth. Encouraged, Raoul added, "If you don't, he'll pull the house down around our ears."

Christine allowed her smile to grow a little. "True enough. It's a good thing—"_we don't have a chandelier_, she started to say, but she could not quite get the words out. "Forgive me, Raoul," she whispered, kneeling next to him.

"Christine, _cherie_, anything I ever needed to forgive you of has been forgotten long ago."

"Liar," she replied softly. "How could you forget, when I won't let us?"

He sighed. "Not forgotten, then, but . . . absolved." Raoul gently took her hands in his and kissed them. "Let us continue, or your son will be bursting in again demanding his breakfast."

They turned to the bed and Christine murmured her simple prayer. She finished with a soft "Amen."

"Amen," Raoul echoed quietly as he stood, turning from her so that he could ignore the. . .

"_I love you_."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: To my reviewers, thank you! I know not a lot has happened so far, but don't worry; it will. grin Apologies for this being a really rather slow and background-ish chapter, but I needed to get it out of the way. Hope you enjoy and the next one will be up shortly.

**trallgorda**: Yes, Charles is Erik's son (sorry if that was unclear) and that is at least part of what Raoul needed to forgive Christine for.

**friendorphantom**: Thanks—I'm glad you like how I'm doing the RC relationship. And Erik should appear in the next chapter, hopefully rubs hands together in glee

**Fantomenfan1**: Updating ASAP!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything, particularly not my dear boy—er, Erik. Any songs I mishandle belong to ALW, and most of my characterizations are due to Susan Kay.

**Chapter Two: The Child of His Heart**

_Raoul_

It had been quite a shock, the first time that he looked down into a newborn baby's eyes and saw that steady golden gaze. Raoul knew whose child this was—oh yes, he knew—but hadn't he heard that all infants' eyes were blue? Be that as it may, over the next few months, the startled jolt he felt when he met that gaze changed into affection and, gradually, into a deep fatherly love. What did it matter, in the end, that this was not his child? Its father had irrevocably placed it into his care, and Raoul found himself increasingly regarding Erik's son and Erik's beloved as the brightest centers of his life.

This made it, as the years passed, harder and harder for him to hate the memory of the Phantom. Where, in the shadows of the Opera House, the sight of those golden eyes had inspired only fear, now Raoul could look across the breakfast table at them and feel only love. Even music . . . music had ceased to haunt him, as it had in the early days. He knew, in the back of his mind, that it could not be entirely normal for a four-year-old to be composing, yet the melodies Charles made were lovely, all either light and joyful or easing to the heart. It was increasingly difficult to refuse Charles when he came to Raoul and begged for Papa to ask Mama to sing with him. Raoul understood the reasons behind Christine's refusal—he had been there, the first and only time she had sang with Charles, and the pain in her voice and eyes had nearly blinded him—but understanding did not make bearing his boy's tears any easier. He knew that at least part of Charles' reason for asking _Raoul_ was manipulative; every child in the world knows how to set his parents against each other if they are not careful. Yet there was a real pain in those yellow orbs every time Raoul had to gently let Charles down.

All in all, it was fortunate that duets were a boon Charles rarely requested; most of the time, he was quite content to immerse himself in life, either by playing with his family or attending to his more solitary pursuits. Today, apparently, was going to be a day Charles spent happily, exhaustingly dragging his parents through the snow, and Raoul was grateful for that. It would distract Christine from the melancholy that stubbornly cropped up every year on this, the anniversary of the final time she had visited her Angel in his lair. That last night when she had emerged wearing a ring Raoul knew was not his . . .

Shaking his thoughts from that particular memory, Raoul glanced up from his now-cold breakfast. "What was that, Charles?"

"I said," he repeated indignantly, "are you ready?"

"I believe I am," Raoul replied, eyeing what was left of his food with distaste. Looking at Christine's already-finished plate, he spoke again. "Is your mother—ah, ready, too, I see," Raoul corrected himself as Christine appeared, dressed warmly with her mittens in one hand and Charles' in the other. "I'll just get my gloves, then, and I'll meet you outside."

Charles smiled and reached his arms up to his mother. "You're getting too big to carried," Raoul heard Christine murmur as the pair left the dining room and headed for the front door. Smiling a little, he stood and followed.

_Caron_

_Such a pretty picture,_ Caron mused as she watched young Charles direct his parents in the building of a snow-house. Raoul and Christine were only the workers; the white structure was entirely of their son's design. The day was crystal clear and deliciously cold, with a winter sun granting bright light to every movement. All in all, the sight of two famous and noble parents taking time to romp with their child had an idyllic feel to it, as though it was a passing vision or even a painting of what might have been.

Because, despite appearances, all was not well in the Chagny home. Caron supposed the first thing she had noticed two years ago, when she and Marie came to nanny for the Chagnys, was that Charles was not . . . quite . . . _normal_ for a toddler. The sisters had had several younger siblings before the fever struck their home and knew full well that two year olds did not hold conversations composed of complete sentences; nor did most children of Charles' age read sheet music. In time, their astonishment—always carefully spoken of outside of their employers' hearing—faded as they simply came to accept that Charles was a unique child. This, however, left them comfortable enough to observe the other things not quite right in the family.

Christine, who was stronger inside than her tiny frame might indicate, avoided any and every French social function she could. For a former diva, especially one who had married a Count—Raoul had inherited his brother's title after Phillipe's death a year past Charles' birth—this was oddly reclusive behavior in and of itself. But the sadness that always lurked just out of sight in her brown eyes, the way she avoided contact with _anyone_ who was at all connected to her former life, even the fact that she stayed out of the public eye in England, where she was not well-known, all contributed to Caron's conviction that she had suffered some deep loss and was running from it any way she could. Caron knew what grief looked like herself; she could not fail to recognize it in another.

And as for Raoul . . .

He was nearly perfect. An adoring father, a gentle master, and a kind husband, the Comte de Chagny seemed ill-matched to his quiet and occasionally even melancholy wife. It was clear that he was devoted to her; it was just as clear, to the eyes of Caron and Marie, that though Christine regarded him as a dear companion, she was not in love with him. This concerned the girls; as a consequence of their role in the family and the unfailing kindness and openness of Raoul and Christine, they had both come to regard the de Chagnys as surrogate family. After a time, of course, they had learned enough to suspect the truth binding this strange little family together, but those suspicions were never spoken of.

Indeed, looking at Raoul and Charles now—following Christine into the finished snow-house, all three laughing with the pure joy of being outdoors—it was impossible to believe that they might not be father and son.

Caron glanced across the front yard of the de Chagny estate in time to see Marie gathering a snowball with decidedly suspicious motives. Laughing, she ducked just as the younger girl threw the packed snow; it sailed over her head and thudded into a tree behind Caron. She grinned and began to plan her retaliation, but a sound coming from the snow-house made her pause.

Music. A familiar clear, high child's voice singing a melody that managed to be both sweet and terribly sad at the same moment. There was silence for a moment, then Christine appeared, tears running down her cheeks. Concerned, Marie and Caron stepped closer, but she waved them off and stumbled, weeping, into the shallower part of the woods. Raoul emerged from the snow-cave next, holding a worried-looking Charles. Giving the boy into his nurses' care, the Comte de Chagny followed his wife and left Caron, Marie, and Charles looking at each other in bewilderment. "What happened?" Caron asked finally, kneeling down to look at Charles eye-to-eye. "We heard your song—it was beautiful."

Charles shrugged, the worried look not leaving his eyes. "Mama cried when she heard it," he pointed out unnecessarily. "She sings it around the house sometimes when she isn't paying attention . . ." The boy stared after his parents, then gave an unconvincing shrug. "I think I want to go back into the snow-house for a while," he told his nurses quietly.

"Do you want us to come with you?" Marie asked.

"No," Charles replied, eyeing the woods. "No, I think I would like to be alone." They nodded and watched as the small boy made his way back into the little snow-house, then turned to each other and sighed.

"I wonder what that was about?" Marie murmured.

Looking towards the place where Christine and Raoul had disappeared, Caron shrugged. "I wish I knew."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Erik! DUN DUN DUN! Still not a whole lot happening, but at least more than there has been. And yes, I know I've said this is almost strictly off Kay's version, but I am using some of the ALW songs, occasionally mutilated to fit my thoughts (I don't own them, I don't own Erik but I wish I did, you know the drill, please don't sue me). Hope you like!

_Erik_

A shadow in the forest surrounding the de Chagny estate cursed softly to itself as Christine, the Comtess de Chagny, stumbled towards its hiding place. Behaving as a shadow should, it just managed to withdraw to a more secure hiding place before Christine passed by. It watched her concernedly, noting with relief that she did not head into the deeper woods but stayed in the relative safety of the estate. Soon, her husband followed, and interest sparked in the shadow when it noticed that, rather than hold her as most husbands would, Raoul de Chagny merely knelt in the snow by Christine's side and held her hand as she wept.

Almost as though he felt he did not own the right to comfort her.

It was abominably foolish of him, really, to come here every winter, the shadow—whose name was Erik—thought. The only thing a visit to the Chagny home guaranteed him was heartache. He could see his shade hanging over this family as clearly as he saw the misery in his beloved Christine's eyes every time he watched her from the darkness; the quiet pain of the couple before him was as much his fault as anyone's.

It wasn't supposed to end this way. Firstly, Erik was supposed to be dead. It had taken Nadir and him a good six months to realize that Erik's condition was, far from worsening, actually improving; six months after that, he had his full strength and former health back, as hardy as it ever had been. The irony had been bitter; if he had not believed that he was finally to be granted release from this earth, Christine would still be with him, and they would be raising their son _together_.

Secondly, she was supposed to be free of his memory by now, which was palpably not the case.

Their son. Erik looked back to the open yard where Charles was supposed to be playing and found, to his amusement, that the boy had snuck out a secret entrance of his snow cave and, unbeknownst to his nurses, was determinedly sneaking into the forest. They were losing him again; not that he blamed Marie and Caron. In fact, their appointment had been one of the very few ways he had anonymously intervened in the Chagny household. But keeping up with a boy who had an incredible knack for stealth was no easy task, and he could not fault them for occasionally failing at it. After all, who could expect a four-year-old to escape unseen from a snow-house that, to all appearances, had only one exit—an exit two concerned nurses were diligently watching?

Fortunately, there was another set of eyes on the scene—golden eyes that watched as said boy headed straight into the woods, a look of concern on his young face. Erik frowned; Charles did not seem to be paying any attention to where he was going. Walking dreamily along like that was most likely to get one lost in a very short space of time . . .

Erik followed.

He remembered the first time he had seen Charles; truly _seen_ him, and known instantly that this was not the son of Raoul de Chagny. The boy had been over a year old; Raoul had been showing him the land he would someday own. He had followed their progress silently, but he had been astonished at the child's grasp of rudimentary language. Boys just out of infancy did not, to his knowledge, talk as this young Charles spoke. He had moved in for a closer look and then—well. Erik had ventured into the family home only rarely, so he had not heard much of the boy's musical talent; but those yellow eyes, that clear, high voice, spoke for themselves. Erik was fascinated. He had once, years earlier, made a drawing of what he might have looked like without his deformities; Charles was a younger mirror-image of that drawing. The thick dark hair, the thin, almost hauntingly beautiful face, the long and slender hands; it was all Erik. Though he could quite clearly see Christine in the boy's nose . . .

Dark was falling; he had been shadowing Charles for over an hour now. The boy must have had quite a bit of serious thinking to do; he was only now looking up and realizing that he was lost. Erik could see panic in the way Charles' eyes darted among the trees, but instead of rushing in one direction blindly, the child seemed to consider his surroundings and, though he could no longer see his footprints in the snow, picked a direction he obviously believed the most likely to take him home. He was generally correct; his path, if followed straightly, would certainly take him within hailing distance of the estate. Relieved, Erik turned to go—he had seen enough for today.

But what if Charles did not continue on a straight course?

Christine could not bear to lose her son today; not this, the day she thought she had lost _him,_ Erik, as well.

He studiously ignored the possibility that he was concerned for Charles for the boy's own sake. Erik had had enough of love.

Charles, after a time, seemed to believe that he had gone far enough that he should have been able to see his home by now. In the distance, Erik could hear men shouting; the entire household would be out looking for the boy. He would surely be safe now, wouldn't he?

It was at that moment that Charles turned and set off on a new course—directly _away_ from the Chagny estate. Erik swore under his breath.

"Monsieur?" The boy was looking around nervously, seeking the source of the voice.

His son, indeed, Erik thought wryly; like him, Charles had to have the ears of a cat to have heard that soft curse. Sighing, for he could see no way out of it, he emerged from the trees and crouched down to be at the child's level. "I will not hurt you, Charles," Erik said quietly.

"You know my name, monsieur?" The boy was considering him with frank curiosity; if the sight of his own eyes reflecting at him out of a stranger's face disturbed him, he gave no sign of it.

"Yes," Erik replied shortly. He forced himself to soften his tone; no child would come to someone who spoke to him that sharply. "I know where you live, Charles, I have come to take you home. Come with me." Nodding, Charles stumbled toward him, and Erik noticed for the first time how very tired the child must be. _He's only four, for all he's your son,_ Erik scolded as he picked up the boy and began to walk in the direction of the estate. Half of his mind was continually ranting about how utterly foolish this was; the other half was listening to Charles' heartbeat.

"Do you know my mother?" Obviously, Charles was _not_ tired enough to leave off the main pursuit of a four-year-old, which was—and is—asking questions.

"Yes."

"When?" Charles asked. Erik's reply, wry and cryptic and containing far too much information, escaped his lips before he could stop it. He clamped his mouth shut; the child had no such compunction. "And my father?"

"Yes, Charles, I knew your father as well." Hesitating, but in the end a victim of his own curiosity—on both sides, he noted wryly—Erik looked down at the boy. "Do you know what made your mother cry today?"

Charles looked down; his small face was troubled. "I sang a song to her—a song she sings when she is not paying attention to what she is doing. She doesn't usually cry when I sing; at least, I don't think she does." He frowned.

The worry, the self-doubt, in his tone touched Erik's heart despite its scars. "No, Charles, I am sure that she loves your singing. Perhaps it is a song that makes her sad; would you sing it for me?"

"_Oui._" He began, "_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless_—"

Erik touched his gloved fingertip to the child's mouth. "Yes, Charles," he whispered sadly, "it is the song's fault that she cried. She has . . . unhappy memories of it. Do you understand?"

He nodded; the golden eyes closed and he squirmed a little closer to Erik. The once-angel felt his breath catch in his throat; such innocent trust he had rarely seen. And that voice; he could hear his own childish tones in the clarity of that young voice. _Oh, my son,_ the anguished thought groaned in his mind. _What have we wrought, my white rose and I? What did the red rose suffer of its parents' sins, to make it turn the color of heart's blood?_

There was no answer.

Suddenly they were surrounded by men and women, happy faces crying out "Thank you, Monsieur!" and declaring "We've found him—run ahead, we've found him!"

Erik stopped and tried to hand Charles over to the stablemaster. The man declined, grinning; the boy clung to him and said, "No, monsieur, come—my parents will want to see you."

_That, I _highly_ doubt_, Erik thought dryly. But he had never been able to refuse Christine anything she asked; it was proving equally impossible for him to deny her son such a simple request. _I will leave him in the yard. See him safely to his mother's arms and then just—leave. Without a word to anyone._ The cowl of his cloak hid the mask; none of the household servants leading them to the Chagny home had seen it, of that he was certain. Of course, Charles had a vastly better vantage point, but that could not be helped.

They were there now, the snow-house hulking to the side as Christine, visibly held back from running into the forest herself by Raoul, cried out, "_Charles!_" She loosed herself from her husband's hold and ran toward them; Charles was equally adroit at wriggling out of Erik's arms and dashing towards her, calling for his mother. Erik backed away; slipping soundlessly through the noisy crowd, he had just reached the shadows outside the lamp-posts when he heard her call out to him. "Wait, Monsieur," Christine said breathlessly as she came up behind him—too close, she was far too close. He faded farther into the darkness, averted his eyes so she would not see their glow. "I do not even know your name to thank you," she whispered, her eyes searching for the place where he had disappeared into the night. "Thank you, monsieur. Thank you." Tears were still running down her face, but at least now they were of joy, not of the old pain.

_I think you do know my name, my dear. I truly think . . . you do._


	4. Chapter 4

_Christine_

The nursery of the Chagny home was a happy place that evening. Raoul and Christine stayed with their son for over an hour past his bedtime, reassuring themselves that he was safe and real and returned to them quite whole. Several dire warnings were issued in Charles' direction to the effect that if he _ever_ strayed to the forest again without an adult handy, he had better hope he became lost because he would be grounded from then to eternity when he returned home.

Christine and her husband each quietly took the tearful young nurses aside and assured them that Charles had escaped much more experienced eyes at an even younger age; this incident was not their fault and they were not to worry. Christine, watching Charles and Raoul as they lay on the floor playing lazily with her son's beloved, intricate building blocks, whispered to herself a silent prayer for the black-clad stranger who had returned her child to her. If only she knew his name, if only she could tell him how deeply a mother's heart thanked him for the gift of her boy—but he had disappeared, gone as abruptly as he had come.

Eventually Charles' sleepiness insured that his parents settled him into bed. Christine sat on the edge of his little mattress, holding him for just a moment longer before she had to surrender him to sleep. Wriggling comfortably closer in her arms, Charles asked, "Mama?"

"Yes, love?"

He gazed up at her, a curious intensity in those yellow eyes. "Do you believe in angels?"

Christine let her eyes drift shut for an endless moment, memories threatening to overtake her; when she opened them, they were bright with tears. "Yes, Charles. I believe in angels. Did one not return you to me tonight?"

"I knew you would say that," Charles answered with a triumphant smile. "I knew it."

Even for Charles, this struck Raoul as an odd thing for a four-year-old to say. "Oh, really?" He asked, smiling, from where he was kneeling by the bed.

"Yes. Because he said he knew Mama when he was an angel."

One breath froze timelessly in her throat; Christine's heart seemed to stop, the very air around her becoming still. Raoul was looking at her, eyes wide; Charles appeared to be unaware of his parents' reactions to his words. Somehow, she said goodnight, tucking him in with a normal voice; turning down the lights and leaving the room were a blur. Christine could not think clearly until they were out in the hall, a safe distance from Charles' hearing; Raoul's gaze on her was concerned. "He's dead," she whispered fiercely, her pain coming into her voice. "It's impossible. _He is dead_, Raoul, and that man had flesh and blood."

Raoul gently brushed away her tears. "I know. And maybe it was just a stranger who said something odd . . . but perhaps we should go to Paris tomorrow, just to be sure." He held up a hand to prevent her protest. "You can visit Meg and Madame Giry; Charles can see the Opera House. You can ask Nadir, even. And who knows? Perhaps . . ." he shrugged. He had never understood Erik; he would not pretend to now.

"Perhaps," Christine asked, her voice hurt, "I will hear the voice of a ghost from Box Five, demanding my heart and soul one last time?" She sighed, her anger spent as soon as it appeared. "Forgive me. I just . . . I cannot believe he still lives, Raoul. I've mourned him for too long."

And if he lived, why had she had to mourn him at all?

_Erik_

For a horse, Cesar was aging rather well. He still had strength, at least, to carry Erik's light form from Paris to the Chagny home and back again, and that was all Erik asked. Nadir was waiting for him in the Rue Scribe when he returned; the old Persian always seemed to know when Erik was going to break his promise to them both and ride out to the estate. Rather than wait for the daroga's questions, Erik began the conversation. He felt oddly cheery; giddy, even, as though taking the risk he had was an excitement his life had been too long without. "I did something incredibly foolish today, Nadir."

"You are always doing the same 'something foolish' when you take Cesar out."

"True. But today I was even more foolish than usual." Erik gestured into his home. "Tea?"

Nadir passed his hand over his eyes. "No. Yes. Tell me what you did, Erik."

He started the samovar. "I saved a child's life, or at least I believe I did. He was lost, you see."

"Nothing so very foolish in that." Nadir settled down to the kitchen table, apparently relieved that this was all Erik had done.

"Ah, daroga, but then I told him I knew his mother."

Raising his eyebrows, Nadir sipped his tea. "Still not foolish. There are dozens of ways you might have known his mother."

A mirthless smile lifted the corners of Erik's mouth. "When I was an angel?"

Nadir's cup lowered. "Oh, dear." Erik shrugged under his old friend's stare. "Do you think he will mention it to . . . her?"

That smiled widened a bit, echoing his pain. To Erik's knowledge, the daroga had not said the word 'Christine' in his presence for five years. "If he does not, he will most certainly comment on this." Erik gestured to his mask.

"Of course he will," Nadir sighed. "The boy is how old—not quite four? Inquisitive age."

And that was another item Erik decided he should probably mention to Nadir, finally. He had, for reasons he did not wish to understand, kept Charles' paternity from his old friend; it was something personal and private that he did not want to share. However, if the Chagnys came to the Persian's door—as they well might—Nadir would know soon enough anyway. "Charles turned four three months ago, daroga," he said simply.

Nadir rested his chin on his hands and evenly met Erik's gaze. "Unless I am quite wrong, that makes it rather unlikely that he is the son of the Comte de Chagny."

"No. Nor do I believe yellow eyes run in the Chagny line," Erik agreed conversationally. "Congratulations for always meeting mine, by the by; I had no idea how disconcerting they could be."

That earned him a scowl. "You know precisely how disconcerting they are and use that to your advantage every chance you get," Nadir corrected irritably. Quietly, he added, "How long have you known that he was your son?"

Erik'ssmile softened, just a little, into an almost content look that even Nadir had rarely seen lurking behind the mask. "Since the moment I first saw him."

_Raoul_

Andre and Firmin were delighted, they said, to have two of their patrons visit; it had been years since the Chagny family had set foot in the Opera Populaire, but their donations had remained regular and generous. When Christine asked for a small favor, they informed her that as such a consistent patron, and as a former diva of that very opera house, anything within their power would be granted her. If they were surprised by her request—to sing from their stage one last time—they did not show it; they simply gathered the orchestra members who were in the opera house at the moment and ushered the entire Chagny entourage into the auditorium. Madame Giry and Meg, who had taken La Sorelli's place as a principle dancer for the company, went to the stage with Christine, as did Raoul and Charles.

She began with a duet from the Garden Scene in Faust; Raoul's heart ached to see the shattered expectation on her face when there was silence at the tenor's entrance. Christine shook her head and requested a different duet, something with a little less . . . history between them; a sweet lovers' ballad. Still, there was silence when the time came for the tenor to respond to his love's questions.

He thought she would give up, then; perhaps she would wish to be taken to the Rue Scribe entrance, or she would ask the whereabouts of the Persian. However, even he was startled when instead of requesting another duet, Christine asked M. Reyer for Elissa's solo in act three of Hannibal. History, indeed . . .

Christine's voice soared in an aching regret for a lost love.

"_Think of me, think of me fondly,_

_When we've said goodbye_

_Remember me, once in a while_

_Please promise me you'll try_. . ."

_Erik_

Hidden beneath one of the stage's trap doors, his head bowed in his arms at the pain in her voice as she sang the duets, Erik listened in sweet agony to the song of his angel. When she asked for _that_ song, his head snapped up in disbelief. She thought he had forgotten her? That he did not think of her every hour of every day? Christine believed he had to be _asked_ to remember her?

She could have sung almost anything else, and he would not have joined her for the world. Without him, she was safe, if broken-hearted; he would only introduce new levels of pain into all three—no, four—of their lives.

But he could not allow her to believe he had simply _forgotten_.

Erik appeared silently behind her on the stage, his hands resting on her shoulders, and raised his voice into the next part of the song.

"_When you find, that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be free_

_If you ever find a moment_

_Spare a thought for me_,"

Christine did not turn to look at him, but one of her slender little hands came up to grasp his. She continued, and he smiled at the changing of the lyrics.

"_We always said our love was evergreen_

_And as unchanging as the sea_,"

He smoothly slipped into the music again, not quite able to keep a bitter pain from his voice as he sang,

"_So if you can still remember_

_Stop and think of me,_"

Now she did turn to him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears at his tone. Gently rebuking, Christine's voice floated throughout the auditorium.

"_Think of all the things we've shared and seen_

_Don't think about the way things might have been_

_Think of me, think of me waking_

_Silent and resigned,_"

Erik's answer was an apology that flowed through his eyes and tone, glinting with a memory of her doing just that . . .

"_Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind_

_Recall those days, look back on all those times,_

_Think of the things we'll never do_

_There will never be a day when I won't think of you,_"

Unbidden, another voice crossed the air and slipped around them. Raoul seemed almost to be speaking to himself, but both Erik and Christine heard the words quite clearly.

"_Can it be? Can it be them?_

_Together as they were?_

_She loves him still, but I cannot tell_

_Is this a blessing or a curse?_

_They may not remember me_

_But I surrender her,_"

A sad, painful smile on her lips, Christine turned and quietly sang to her husband.

"_You could see that I belonged to him_

_You saw my heart before I knew,_"

She turned back to her heart's beloved; Christine and Erik joined their voices into one perfect, beautiful sound, their eyes and hearts wholly on each other as they cried out,

"_There will never be a day when_

_I won't think of you!_"

**A/N: **Tell me what you think! Please r&r—I want to know how this came across. To all my reviewers—thank you so much! Keep reading . . . more to come!

Lindaleriel: Thanks for the review—I'm sorry that I can't write RC for you, but I just . . . can't. At least I'm being sort of nice to the poor boy, right? I mean, he's not evil Raoul in this one. Yes, this will end EC, but . . . just keep reading.

Erik-Meister: Thanks!

Mominator124: Thank you so much—that was an awesome review (as you can see, I'm taking your suggestions to heart :D ) Hope you liked the "Think of Me" bit . . . I could just hear Raoul saying, at his part, "I _surrender_ her" instead of "I remember her", which is kind of where the idea for thisstorystarted. Thanks again!


	5. Chapter 5

_Raoul_

Even Erik and Christine could not hold a note forever. When the last echoes of that joyous promise had died, the entire auditorium was left in a deep silence. The managers and the orchestra, the servants and aides of the Chagny household, Madame Giry and her daughter, all were aware to some degree—even if only by gossip—that _something_ had happened five years ago between these three. Firmin and Andre looked pale at the reappearance of their erstwhile and supposedly dead tormentor; the Girys were watching quietly from the sidelines as they always had; and Christine, Raoul, and Erik were simply staring at each other, a question on all of their faces: _what now?_

If it had not been for Charles, that silence might never have broken. Charles, who alone in the theatre was blissfully ignorant of the conflicting emotions flooding that stage, Charles who was tied to the three people in the center of that emotional whirlwind deeper than he knew—Charles slipped away from Madame Giry and ran onto the stage, joyfully crying out "Angel!"

Raoul backed away, that simple word echoing painfully in his heart. He watched as the tall black shadow knelt and held the boy close for a moment before setting him at arms' length, heard that too-beautiful voice formally ask—oh, the irony!—to be introduced to the child's mother. Despite the words he had given them, true words, Raoul felt the most human part of his heart crying out _Erik, please . . . don't take them from me just because you can_ . . .but he forced himself to remember that he had never been anything more than a guardian, a custodian to watch over two precious jewels while their master was away.

A voice whispered commandingly in his ear. "Come here." Raoul shook his head; Erik repeated himself with a little more steel in his tone. "Come _here_, you wretched, foolish boy. Don't you understand?" This time, Raoul saw the slight twitch of the long, pale fingers above Charles' head. It was a beckon and despite himself, the Comte de Chagny found he could not refuse it. Unwillingly his feet carried him over to complete their wrenching triangle, little Charles standing innocently in the center. Raoul gasped as cold fingers snatched his hand; he could only watch in wonder as the fingers joined his hand to that of his wife, and then quite suddenly, the Opera Ghost had disappeared.

Christine's hand tightened on his, and he winced as the highest, most piercing scream of pain a fully trained soprano could give rang in his ears, shattering his heart with a single word.

"_ERIK!"_

_Christine_

"Mama?"

What could she do? In the few words they had spoken, in leaving her, Erik had made his desires _quite_ clear. She was to stay with Raoul, she was to continue raising his son, she was to live her life as though he had never existed. Christine was, in fact, very nearly _ordered_ to let go. He had not answered her scream, for all that she knew he would hate her doing such a thing to her voice, and now Christine stood in the middle of a crowded stage, her heart empty. Around her, Raoul assured the managers that all would be well—there would be no twenty-thousand franc demands—asked the servants to prepare to return to the estate, and soothed nervous orchestra members, settling everything and everyone back into their proper places. What was her place, living in a world where her Angel lived but would not see her?

"Mama?"

Of course. Where her place always was, no matter how broken her heart or tormented her mind or how lost she might feel inside: her place was with her son. Christine slowly knelt down next to him, her long curls spilling about until the two of them were shielded from the world. His trusting, innocent eyes were worried; she reached out a gentle hand to smooth his brow, run her fingers through his dark hair. "I'm here, Charles. It's all right."

"He's gone. I wanted him to meet Papa too, but he left." She desperately hope that he would not notice the tears that veiled her eyes as he said _Papa_. Charles was looking at the floor now, in the spot where Erik had vanished. "I wonder," he said with his natural curiosity, "how he did it? I was watching him but I could not see. Do you think he is all right?"

"Yes, Charles." _I'm quite certain that he is. He always has been._ It was a cheap and dirty trick, but she pulled it anyway; anything to distract him. "Did you like the song we sang?"

"Oh, _yes_. You have not played that one for me before." He gave her an utterly adorable scowl, as though she had been deliberately keeping precious secrets from him. "What is it from?"

"Hannibal. I played it once, here on this very stage."

"_This_ was where you performed? In this exact theatre? Oh, Mama!" He had always been interested in her life as a diva; how had they neglected to tell him the history of the theatre they were traveling to this day?

Well. Perhaps such neglect wasn't so very unreasonable, after all.

Christine smiled at him. "Yes, this _exact_ theatre. Would you like to see some more of it?"

"Yes, please." Charles turned around, looking for Raoul; finding him, the boy called out, "Papa!"

Would her heart _always _hurt when he said that?

Swiftly, Raoul was by their side, kneeling down to be on both their eye levels. "Yes, Charles?"

"Will you show me some more of the theatre? Can we see—oh, everything! Mama, did you have a dressing room, or was it a dormitory with lots of girls together? Are there ballet rooms and can we go up the staircase again? And surely there must be rooms for costumes and singing and . . ."

Raoul and Christine were staring at each other; they had both stopped listening at the words _dressing room_.

**A/N**: A rather short little chapter, but I feel kind of fond of it. Please, please review--I have had over 250 hits and 7 reviews (you can't _all_ hate it--and if you do, please tell me why)! Thank you to the wonderful people who have reviewed the last chapters--your encouragementskeep me writing.

Special thanks to:

Mominator124--you're reviews brighten my day. Good point about 'grounding' . . . I may just go back and fix that. As for what happens, you'll just have to wait and see! Mwuahaha!

I think I've thanked everyone else--so on with the story. Back to writing I go!


	6. Chapter 6

_Christine_

She was begging shamelessly and she knew it. Christine's midnight blue eyes met her husband's lighter ones, silently pleading for a second chance she knew she had no right to ask for. They remained locked into each other's gazes for a long moment; then Christine saw his quiet, noble heart break a little more and he nodded. "Charles, your mother had a very special dressing room when she lived here; it was her favorite out of almost every room. Would you like to see it?"

Charles paused in his recital of places he wanted to go and smiled with the full and present joy of a child. "May we go _now_?"

With a laugh that was very nearly a sob, Christine held out a hand to each of her boys. "Of course we may." The dressing-room would be empty, she knew; one of the only requests Raoul had made of the management over the years was that her old room be untouched. As no respectable singer would want such a lost dressing-room anyway, they had readily complied.

The room was dusty and stale when they entered, but Christine didn't mind. She only had eyes for the great mirror. "Raoul, do you remember . . .?" she asked. He nodded and searched the mirror for the tiny button Nadir had shown him on that night over five years ago; with a click, the counterweights released and the mirror sung inward.

Charles was fascinated. "Who made the mirror like that?" He demanded, coming over from where he had been examining Christine's old dresser.

She smiled and picked him up in her arms. "Let me tell you a little more about the Angel . . ."

_Raoul_

He listened half-heartedly as Christine's voice carried back to him stories of Erik. In the dressing-room, Raoul had seriously debated following the mother and son into the darkness, but he had found himself unable to let them go alone. Now, following them, he was just as deeply contemplating allowing them to continue without him. Erik might not even be at the house by the lake, and he both hoped and feared what a private talk between Erik and the Chagnys might accomplish. Would it bring about resolution? Closure? Or would it spark abandonment, or be only the pointless reopening of old wounds? He could not tell. For a minute Raoul actually stopped, letting the candle Christine held grow distant as he stared after it.

"You are _utterly_ exasperating."

He turned to face Erik in the shadowy darkness. "No need to be insulting," Raoul said mildly. "Wouldn't it be easier for everyone if I just . . . disappeared?"

Raoul could have sworn there was a teasing note in Erik's voice when he replied, "Don't tempt me." The golden eyes closed. "Easier for whom? The wife who depends on your steadiness more than you know? The son whose world revolves around you? Easier for me, when I was concentrating quite thoroughly on being dead to avoid this very situation? For you, who, despite what you may believe, is incapable of abandoning either of them without knowing their certain fate? No, my dear Comte; while excruciating, a little talk between the three of us might do some good."

"He's your son."

Raoul did not know what had made him bring _that_ to light so abruptly; the darkness around them further stilled, echoing with his words. Finally Erik answered, "If you believe I am unaware of that, monsieur, you are mistaken indeed. But I would prefer that _he_ remain ignorant of it unless there is no other choice. I never knew my father, but I can imagine how much it would hurt to lose a father such as you have been to him at so young an age, and I will not inflict that pain upon him without very good reason."

Raoul bowed his head; at the sputtering of a lit candle, he followed the man he had once thought a heartless monster into the depths of his Opera House.

_Erik_

Christine and Charles were waiting for them by the boat; before he stepped into view, he could see the flicker of doubt in her eyes—she never had been able to find the hidden craft on her own. If Erik truly did not wish to speak to her, all he need do was leave her standing on the edge of the lake.

Did she not know he could never do that to her?

"You lost something," Erik murmured conversationally as he came up beside her; he had doused his own candle, and Christine's looked frail in the gathered shadows. She raised the light to see him, and Raoul following close behind him; the corners of her mouth lifted slightly, but there was no joy in that smile. Christine knew that the three of them had what likely would be a very unpleasant interval ahead of them.

The boat was located and all four of them—Charles nearly hanging off the prow, restrained from falling into the icy water only by his mother's firm grip on his shirt—were soon crossing the vast black cavern in silence. With both Erik and Raoul rowing, their little party reached the other shore far more quickly than usual. Raoul picked Charles up and headed towards the house, leaving Erik to help Christine from the boat. It was so simple; the pressure of her hand in his, as though they had never parted, her dark eyes questioning him as he gently aided her efforts to avoid the water lapping around them; she stood close, too close, when they was again on solid ground. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms; exercising his remaining self-control, Erik simply tenderly squeezed her hands and withdrew.

"Erik."

He could not resist; he turned back to her and quietly answered, "Beloved?"

Tears that had been threatening to fall since he appeared behind her on the stage were finally spilling down her cheeks; he reached forward and gently stroked them away with his thumbs, his long hands cradling her face. "_Why_?" Christine whispered, her arms hesitantly locking around his neck. When Erik neither answered nor resisted, she edged closer, touching her forehead to his shoulder. For a moment, just one moment, he allowed himself to hold her near, his arms tight around her, before gently moving away.

"Your husband is waiting." He took her hand and kissed it, then used it to lead her forward.

**A/N: **Hope you're enjoying this. Review please!

Mominator124: I love it when I surprise people! I want what I'm going to end up doing with this to be a surprise as well . . . oh, don't worry, there will be -much- conflict.


	7. Chapter 7

_Christine_

Nadir had appeared quietly in the kitchen and led Charles into the room Erik used as a creative domain; between the music, inventions, books, and odds and ends strewn about, it was hoped that the young boy would be able to amuse himself while the adults held their discussion. Now, the three of them were sitting around the table, cups of tea looking oddly out of place before them.

Erik was leaning back in his seat, seemingly content to watch the other two. Raoul had his elbows on the table, his head in his hands as he stared into his teacup as though he thought it might give him answers. Looking between them, Christine felt a sharp pang. It was the happening all over again, and once more it was her fault: no matter what happened, she would be hurting both of the men she loved. She was wiser, now; as wise as five years of living with a broken heart and raising a child could make her, but she found herself still unable to decide. Her love for Erik was a deep, passionate river of knowledge and love, an understanding of each other's hearts and minds that went soul-deep. But Raoul was her husband, Raoul had given her so much and asked for so little in return; she loved Raoul as a good and gentle friend, someone who would always support her and always be steady at her side. Which was the best choice for her future—her son's future? The man she loved in the very depths of her spirit, or the husband whose adoring heart she had broken again and again? She could live without Erik; it nearly killed her, it took every ounce of strength she had, but she could do it. Could she live without Raoul's steady guidance—would it be fair for her to ask Charles to?

Christine did not know the answers. She did know, however, that it was up to her to begin, for neither of her companions would. So she started with the question that had haunted her since last night, when her son spoke of an Angel and the possibility of Erik being alive drew hope and fear into her heart. Meeting his yellow gaze, she asked simply, "Why did you let me think you were dead?"

"Because, my d—Christine, I thought I _was_ dying. I was not intentionally deceiving you; I believed that, finally, I was going to be released from this mortal prison . . . you can imagine my shock when Nadir and I realized that I was actually improving. I was very nearly bedridden for six months after you left; it took a year for me to regain my former and present state of disgustingly perfect health. By that time, of course, you were married and Charles was three months old." He sighed. "What did you want me to do, Christine? You had someone who could look after you, someone who could usher the sorrow out of your eyes and teach you to live again. Better for all concerned if I had died; I resolved to act as though I were truly a ghost."

"But you weren't." This, surprisingly, came from Raoul; he had raised his head and was looking at both of them evenly. "I think we all know that Christine would not have married me if Charles had not needed a father. He has one now; our marriage can be annulled at any time." He turned a little, his gaze penetrating into Christine's. "I love you, and I love your son. But I know all too well where your heart lies. Why not just let me step aside and let things become as they should have been from the beginning? Charles is young; he may not even remember me once he grows up. Why not just free us all?"

"Would any judge annul a marriage that involved a son?" Christine answered quietly. "I don't know what's best. I don't know what's right anymore. I made vows to you, Raoul, vows I cannot break—but my heart made other promises." She laughed a little. "Neither of you is willing to take us away from the other. What happens when you out-noble each other and Charles and I end up being supported by you both and living without either?"

"Not a bad idea," Erik replied dryly. Raoul just shook his head. "You are married, and if you would just let go of me you could be happy. Let me die in your heart and give you peace."

"Charles deserves to know his father," Raoul retorted.

"Charles deserves to have a life secure in the love of two parents," Erik shot back.

They glared at each other. "Someday, he is going to wonder where he gets it from—his music, his mind, his eyes. There was never any intention of us _not_ telling him about you at some point."

"Stop it, both of you." Christine rubbed her eyes with her fingers. "'Oh what tangled webs we weave,'" she quoted dryly. "Charles _will_ be told who his father is." This was spoken with a scowl at Erik. Turning the same gaze to Raoul, she added, "But I think he is a little too young for that knowledge just yet. This is going to take time. Why don't we live in Paris for a while? Charles can get to know Erik and the three of us can try to decide what is best for him."

Raoul nodded, and Erik reluctantly followed suit. "You do know that we are never going to agree?" He asked quietly. Christine shrugged; she was saved from answering by Nadir's quiet voice from the doorway.

"We have company."

**A/N**

Lindaleriel: Thanks for liking my Raoul--he's a sweetheart. Usually . . .

Rhivanna: Thank you for reviewing! I'm glad you like it so much so far -blushes at praise- . More to follow as soon as I get it written, and thanks for the encouragement over reviews, too.

miffster:I would be mad with jealousy too! And he is human, never fear; Raoul is jealous--incredibly so--but it is a jealously he's had to live with for five years already, which is why he (so far) has a decent level of control over it.Though now that the jealousy has a target of flesh and blood, we'll see what happens. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

_Charles_

He should have listened at the door. Charles was certain he could have convinced the short man wearing the odd hat to move away from it, and he had learned long ago that any time his parents wanted him out of hearing it was because they were going to talk about things he was interested in. Unfortunately, his eavesdropping intentions had scattered when he looked around the room that the funny-hat man had led him into.

Music. _Everywhere_, there was music. The sleek piano in the corner, the stacks of scores on shelves and haphazardly lining the walls, the worn violin case leaning against an old, squishy couch, the pitch-pipes and fresh, untouched sheets for composing, the rosily carved lap-harp; everything in the room hummed to his heart of music. Charles glanced up at the funny-hat man only once for permission; at his nod, the child eagerly dove into the nearest stack of scores, his mind translating the written notes instantaneously into a dancing melody playing throughout his head. It looked to be a little beyond his skill, but he climbed up onto the piano bench and, entranced, began to slowly and quietly pluck out the tune. Charles' confidence grew as he continued to play, and soon he was running through the piece at speed and adding a few little variations of his own.

His playing was interrupted by an odd, discordant sound; Charles stopped and listened to it with a frown on his face. It was coming from beyond the music-room's other door and was noisily distracting; something like two pieces of wood being smacked together. The man in the strange hat had heard it too; he motioned for Charles to stay still and went out of the music-room. When he came back in, he was accompanied by a tall lady in black—Charles recognized her as Madame Giry, the woman who had held his hand while his Mama sang on the stage of the Opera House—and Caron and Marie. Apparently, the wood-knocking noise had been Madame Giry's cane rapping on the door. Charles smiled at his nurses and turned back to the piano, but at a gesture from Madame Giry Caron gently touched his wrists and shook her head. "Not now, Charles, we need to talk to your Papa. Come with us?" She opened her arms and Charles stood on the bench to jump into them. He knew he was rapidly approaching a time when no one would carry him any longer, so the young Chagny relished any opportunity to be held. He buried his face into Caron's long red hair and waited patiently as the funny-hat man—had he heard Madame Giry call the man Nadir?—opened the door into the kitchen. He spoke, and soon Mama, Papa, and Angel were in the music-room as well.

Madame Giry immediately looked to Angel and said, "Forgive me for intruding on your privacy, but something has happened and we decided it would be best if all concerned were informed immediately."

Angel nodded, that curious white mask seeming to float above his black clothing, before turning to face the fireplace, his back to the rest of them. Charles was brimming with an impulse to find out why his friend wore the mask, but he was distracted when Madame Giry nodded encouragingly to Marie and the young nurse quietly began her story. According to her, just after the Chagnys had disappeared into the depths of the Opera House, Monsieur Barret had burst into the theatre with devastating news. Barret acted as the chief steward for the Chagny family; anything that could draw him off the estate in search of his master and mistress was serious indeed.

Fire?

His music was at home. What did Marie mean, _fire_? The music Mama taught him, stored safely in its wooden cupboards at home, was delicate; fire would hurt it. Fire would hurt all of the lovely books Mama had explained to him about architecture and drawing from; worse, _fire_ could destroy his works, his drawings . . . the compositions he had created out of the light of his own mind . . . crackling, hungry fire licking at his scores, eating the nursery and the piano, throwing a smoldering orange glow over every place he loved and played, destroying his home . . .

Charles began to cry. He was too old for tears, he knew, and so he hid them in Caron's shoulder. She rocked him gently, soothing, and Charles looked up to realize she was weeping too. Papa was white; Mama was shaking, tears in her eyes. Marie had finished speaking and was huddled on the couch. His sobs increasing, Charles reached out for Christine. She was there suddenly, easing his tears, taking him out of the music-room where the dreadful word _fire_ had been said. Mama's tears mixed with his as she carried him into a quiet room with a large, soft bed, and sang softly to him until his tears wore him out and he fell asleep.

_Christine_

"No one was harmed?" Raoul was gently questioning Marie and Caron when Christine went back into the music-room. The girls shook their heads; M. Barret had been quite firm in his assurances that no one had been caught in the fire. "Razed to the ground," he muttered to himself, staring unseeingly at the walls.

Christine touched his arm. "We were going to stay in Paris for a time anyway," she murmured. "Everyone but Caron and Marie can return to the house in England, and we should be able to get an apartment here that can accommodate the five of us easily enough." Raoul nodded; her heart ached for him. He had been raised in that house; it had been home to untold generations of the Chagny family. To lose it so unexpectedly, on top of everything else that had happened in the last two days, was a painful shock for her husband. Christine mourned the quiet things they had lost; not the fine silver and the paintings, but the nursery with its drawers and cupboards of Charles' toys and creations, the little sitting room where the five of them had spent almost every evening when they were in France, and the library with it's shelves of books and old family journals.

Erik had remained silent through Marie's retelling; Christine, unused to hearing his voice outside her mind for the last five years, started a little when he spoke now. "Stay here." Everyone in the room turned to stare at the tall dark figure outlined by the flickering light from the fireplace. He did not face them, but seemed to sense their surprise. "This house is large enough for six to fit comfortably; I don't use half the rooms in it now. The kitchen should be adequate for our needs, and you would be spared both the cost of an apartment and time spent traveling between the Opera and any apartment you might rent. Besides," he added dryly, "I believe I have lived enough alone."

"You hate company," Christine murmured, moving to stand beside him. "Living with five other people would drive you mad."

"I thought I passed that point several years ago," he quipped lightly. Erik turned a little to look at her and shrugged. "At any rate, you are not company. The lines connecting us may be crossed and twisted, but strange as it is, we are, in a way, family."

Caron and Marie both wore confused expressions; Madame Giry and Nadir looked uncomfortable, as though they felt they were infringing on the family's privacy. Raoul tiredly rubbed his eyes with his fingers and sighed. "Fine," he responded quietly. "I can't say I like it, but it seems as though intruding upon your hospitality here is our best option." Remembering just where _here _was, Christine wondered vaguely how Charles would like living by an underground lake. She resolved to impart warnings to him against any ventures toward the water as soon as he awakened.

_Raoul_

The rest of the afternoon and early evening were spent recovering; Raoul was kept busy arranging lodging and passage to their England home for the rest of the staff, while Caron and Marie moved a sleeping Charles from the Louis-Philippe room to an out-of-the-way former storage area that was suitable for a nursery. It took very little to convert it into a room that was fitting for a young boy; Raoul had a deep suspicion that housing such a boy might have been the room's silently hoped-for purpose when Erik added it onto his crazily complicated house. Christine and Madame Giry oversaw the stocking of the kitchen and a general scrubbing of most surfaces; Erik himself scrupulously avoided those two, other than one memorable confrontation outside of his music-room in which he unequivocally denied them entrance. Once Charles was settled, the young sisters lent their aide to the cleaning efforts. Raoul had seen nearly identical flashes of understanding overcome their lingering confusion the first time Caron and Marie came face-to-face with Erik and his pair of familiar golden eyes; a brief vocal explanation might still be necessary, but they seemed to have admirably grasped the basics of the situation. Meg, who had entered through the Rue Scribe after fulfilling her duties as ballet-mistress for the youngest Opera girls, had taken Christine on a quick shopping trip to meet the basics of their clothing needs. The mantle clock now read half-past nine, and both the Giry women as well as Nadir had abandoned the house, leaving only Erik, the three Chagnys, and their two nurses within.

They had gathered in the music-room once more; it was one of the few areas in the house both large enough and with adequate seating to fit the five adults comfortably. Charles was still soundly asleep, and Raoul knew Christine hoped that he would remain that way until morning. Beds had been found and hauled into the house for Caron and Marie as well as Charles; they had managed to fit all three into the now-nursery comfortably, so that if the young boy did awake, he would not be alone.

"Your room is as it always was, as I'm certain you've discovered," Erik quietly told Christine. He added the briefest—and utterly blank—glance to include Raoul as he continued, "I am certain you will be comfortable; now is when I bid you good night." He inclined his head in a formal bow to the others and headed for the door.

Christine's called quietly after him, "Erik," and he paused, looking at her over his shoulder. Raoul watched a wry smile twist her lips and memory fill her face as she inquired, "I think it might be best if the organ remain silent at night, don't you?" He could almost swear he saw a repressed grin behind the mask as Erik nodded again and left the room.

"The rest of us should probably try to get some sleep as well," Raoul spoke into the silence. Rising, he gently pulled Christine to her feet and smiled tiredly at each of the girls. "Caron, Marie, good night. We will see you in the morning." Their quiet echoes of 'good night' followed the two Chagnys into the hall.

Raoul lay awake long after he was certain Christine had fallen asleep, trying to force the day's images out of his mind. His thoughts shot terribly between mental views of his ancestral home in flames to Christine smiling at Erik in a quiet moment with the loving smile that Raoul had never seen from her. Christine and Erik, their voices as irrevocably twined as their souls, singing of their undying love; the adoring tone he had heard as Christine and Charles spoke of the Angel; all of his family's possessions and shelter bursting into flame; reddish orange color devouring Charles' nursery; that moment he had left his wife and the man she loved alone on the lake shore; back and forth, real and imagined, each picture stabbing farther and farther into his heart.

It had been easy, Raoul discovered, to be generous about sharing his family with a dead man. As deeply as Erik's shadow had haunted every corner of the Chagny home, it had been a light touch indeed compared to the reality of a living, breathing Opera Ghost who still held sway over Christine's heart. Jealousy he thought he had put behind him years ago—jealousy it had taken enormous strength not to give into that day—rose into his soul. Never mind that her heart had never truly belonged to him; Christine wore _his_ ring around her finger, and it was to Raoul that her wedding vows of faith and fidelity had been made. She would be true to those; _they_ both would, or face the consequences . . .

He woke and realized immediately that she was gone.

Raoul gritted his teeth and, for one moment, considered simply staying in bed. The next, he was on his feet and putting a robe over his night clothes. If they wanted to shatter promises, they would shatter them with his condemnation hanging over them.

Whatever he had expected to find, it wasn't Erik leaning in the door to the lake, alone, looking out at the darkness. Raoul hesitated and, ashamed, began to retreat; the other's voice stopped him. "She'll catch her death of cold out there," Erik murmured, his tone quite casual.

Coming nearer, Raoul could see past Erik's shoulder well enough to get a glimpse of the pale figure in a thick white dressing-gown sitting on the edge of the lake. Christine had her knees drawn up to her chin; she was very still, and though he could not see much of her face, what Raoul could view wore an expression of blank disquiet. He turned away. "Then why don't you bring her in?"

"Because, monsieur," Erik replied, his eyes moving thoughtfully to Raoul as though they knew precisely what he had been thinking when he rushed from the Louis-Philippe room, "she is _your_ wife."

Raoul shook his head. "It isn't me she needs," he informed his companion darkly.

"What Christine does not _need_, at this moment, is for me to tempt her to break promises _she_ holds sacred." Erik yanked off his own cloak and tossed it negligently to Raoul. "If you use that, she will come quietly." He turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving Raoul feeling both ashamed and incredibly impotent. Raoul would not have used that cloak to wrap around Christine for the entire world, except he wasn't wearing anything much warmer than she was . . . with no other choice, he walked toward the lake-shore to persuade his wife to return to the house.

_Erik_

It had been a wicked thing to do, loaning Raoul that cloak; Erik watched a little guiltily as what he had suspected would happen occurred. At the entrance to their room, Raoul asked Christine to remove the cloak; there were warmer blankets inside and she would no longer need it. She refused, wrapping it more closely around her; angry and guessing the reason for her reluctance to part with it, Raoul suddenly snapped, "If you want him that badly, just _go_ to him."

Christine looked at him for a moment with wide, hurt eyes; then her gaze narrowed. "I _will_ _not_ break my vows to you, Raoul. I can't believe you think I would."

"In letter or in spirit, Christine?" Raoul demanded. "Because you're already breaking them in your heart."

She stared at him for a moment, then quietly said, "I'm sleeping on the couch in the music-room. Good night, Raoul."

Her husband shook his head in disgust; quite clearly, just before he closed the door, he shortly whispered, "It's not as if it makes a difference."

Christine had gazed at the locked door for a while; then she shook herself and, pulling the cloak tighter, headed into the music-room. Erik toyed briefly with the idea of following her, but decided against it; he had done enough subverting for one evening. However, as he passed the open entrance, she called out softly, "You knew that would happen."

Halting, Erik winced a little and retreated to stand just outside the doorway. "Yes," he admitted in as muted a tone as she had used, "I did. And it was wrong of me to cause it, which is why you'll notice that I did not come in here after you."

"Thank you." Christine stood and stretched out a hand to him; when he eyed it warily, she sighed. "I just want to be held for a moment, Erik. A simple hug, nothing beyond that. And I will stop you if you try to make it more. I promise."

"Or threaten," he muttered, but came into the room and gently wrapped his arms around her. They held each other tightly, as though with a single embrace they could wash away five years of absence, five years without the dear touch of a beloved. Christine nestled against Erik's chest till she could feel his heart beating against her cheek through the thin cloth of his shirt; his hands, safely against her back, trailed down to her waist, holding her tightly. Christine raised her head, and for a moment it seemed they would kiss. It was inevitable; they were moving closer, her hand was lifting to remove the mask . . .

"Go," she whispered, pulling away from him. "_Go_."

As ethereally as though he had never been in them, Erik was gone from her arms.

_Raoul_

A thought had come to him, lying alone in the middle of the night; a jealous thought, a suspicious thought, a thought which whispered to Raoul that the entire timeline of recent affairs had happened a little too easily. Everything had fallen into place too smoothly for the past two days to have been a series of accidents devised by heaven or fate.

Fortunately, Raoul could think of another entity who liked to orchestrate events to his satisfaction.

Early morning was a quiet time in this house of Erik's; the kitchen clock ticked evenly from seven to eight without anyone stirring. It was odd for Raoul to have to depend on the clock to tell whether it was morning, afternoon, or evening, but here one could hardly tell the time of day by looking out a window; even if Erik had had windows, all they would show was a dark underground cavern.

En-masked and once again dressed in unrelenting black, Erik appeared in the kitchen around eight-fifteen. A cool 'Good morning' passed between the two men; Raoul nibbled on his toast while Erik put water on to boil for tea. Silence descended between them, thick and heavy with past and present tensions, until Raoul casually asked, "Odd, isn't it? The house burning down like that. The one day we're in Paris, too. I can't think what would have happened if—what did they say it was? A fireplace left unattended?—had lit the place up while we were all at home." The words, he realized, had been said a little too callously, but there was no way of correcting that now.

"You have my condolences," Erik answered. Was it Raoul's imagination, or had the black-clad figure stiffened a little, that golden voice cooled just a bit?

"It's been a rough couple of days, especially for Charles. Getting lost in the woods, only to have his home burn away when he's gone from it the next day," he continued, forcing his voice to remain as even as possible.

"Quite." There was a definite coldness in Erik's tone now.

Raoul tilted his head back, looking at the other with what he hoped could pass for idle curiosity. "Rescuer," he murmured thoughtfully to Erik's back, "murderer. Angel and demon, magician and deceiver, architect and extortionist, designer and destroyer, composer and thief. Are there no end to your contradictions?" His voice lowered. "Or have you added another pair of titles to your name—_Angel_ and _arsonist_?"

"You have already used 'angel' once, which severely weakens the delivery of your conclusion," Erik replied flatly. "Perhaps you should try to rephrase it and see if you cannot make your meaning more clear."

"You did it." Raoul stood and glared at the former Phantom. "I'll never prove it, no one will ever believe it, but I _know_ you did it. Did Charles even get lost, or was he called away by a voice he couldn't ignore, just so that you could arrange this _happy reunion_ of ours?"

Now Erik did turn to look at him, and the anger in those yellow eyes hit Raoul like a physical blow, almost forcing him to retreat, but he stood his ground. "You are rambling, _monsieur_," Erik hissed acidly. "I suggest you desist from this line of thought until you are rational enough to consider its full implications."

Short and humorless, Raoul's laugh echoed through the room. "Rational? You stole my son, seduced my wife, and burned my home. Don't talk to me about _rational_!" He was shouting now.

If anything, Erik's voice went lower, quieter, but somehow still strong enough to reach Raoul with its rawness. "Who stole what, my dear _Comte_?" The words were nearly a snarl, and this time Raoul did step back from the fury that lay just behind the mask. "_My_ son. _My_ wife, though we were married only in heart. How dare _you_ accuse me of anything—_anything_—that would harm Christine or Charles, cause them the least amount of distress, when I would gladly die and take you with me to keep either of them from knowing a moment's pain? _How dare you_!" This last, finally, was said in a raised voice, an almost-shout that growled through the kitchen.

"Your son? Your wife? Then where have you been for the last five years? Hiding in a hole beneath a gaudy opera-house, _sacrificing_ yourself for their sakes? When all either has ever wanted was _you_? Oh no, _Phantom_, what you have been doing is selfishly keeping away from the two people who have needed you most!" Raoul clenched his fists, matching Erik's angry stare. "How many nights have I watched her cry herself to sleep? How many times have I seen him struggling with something that _I_ cannot help him with because neither Christine nor I understand how his mind works? How often is it a trial for her just to get out of bed and face another day without you? Countless. Endless. And _every_ day. You're right, Erik," Raoul spat. "You haven't caused them a moment's pain—you've caused them a lifetime of it."

"_I know_. You think that I have not watched them, monsieur? You think that I have not seen that pain in her eyes, cutting out my heart every time I look at her? I trusted you to take _care_ of them. Not let the hurt in her soul grow until it nearly consumed her. Do you think that I wanted to leave her alone? I thought I was dying; I had no choice but to see that she was cared for. And I would only have caused _more pain_ by reappearing in your lives when I had recovered." Erik's voice changed noticeably, from angry defense into a weary resignation. "Good morning, Christine."

Raoul whirled to find his wife standing quietly in the doorway, looking between the two of them with hurt anger in her expression. No one spoke for a moment, then another voice—a younger version of Erik's—spoke. "Mama? I heard angry voices." Christine turned and picked Charles up; she soothed him for a moment, assuring him that Papa and Angel had just been talking too loudly. Caron appeared on Charles' heels, obviously upset that the boy had managed to sneak away from her again.

When Caron had taken Charles back into the nursery, Christine turned to face Erik and Raoul once more. The hurt that had been in her eyes was gone, leaving only a fury that turned her pale. "I cannot ask you to get along," Christine said softly, her words clear and sharp despite the lowness of their tone. "Say what you must to each other." She paused, taking a moment to meet each of their gazes, and her voice shook when she continued. "But if you raise your voices in his hearing again, I swear I will leave you both."

The three of them stared at each other in silence, then Christine left in a swirl of dark hair and white nightgown. Erik turned his back to Raoul; he took the now-boiling teakettle off the stove, but instead of making tea he simply stood, resolutely facing the wall. Passing his hand tiredly over his eyes, Raoul left the kitchen in the direction opposite to the one Christine had taken.

**A/N**: Hope no one wants to injure me for this chapter--I had a great deal of fun writing it. I'm also hoping that the argument, esp between Raoul and Erik, came across okay. Thanks for reading and tell me what you think!

Mominator124: Thanks! Assuming ECR means what I'm thinking it does--no. _Ewww_, no. I'm a major EC fluff fan myself; that's why I'm writing a fluffy story alongside this one . . . I needed somthing to keep me happy, lol. You guessed it--the company was Madame Giry. And yes, everyone _was_ being civil . . .-grin-. Thank you so much for always reviewing--you make my day!

Lindaleriel: Just a quick note if you're still reading, because you're probably upset with me about the Raoul in this chapter. I'm sorry I had to make him angry, but he couldn't be inhumanly good all the time!


	9. Chapter 9

_Erik_

After the chaos of yesterday, his house was eerily quiet this morning. Then again, perhaps he and Raoul had created enough racket to silence the rest of them until at least early afternoon. Erik's mouth tightened in self-recrimination; he knew better than to lose his temper at the boy. That insinuation in Raoul's voice, however, suggesting that Erik would have kidnapped his own son and destroyed a home Christine loved just to bring the two of them back into his life, had sparked Erik's sleeping anger into a fully woken fury. His soul cried out for music to ease his frustration, as it always had. Shuddering with need, Erik swiftly abandoned the kitchen and quickly made his way to his sanctuary, his fingers already itching for the aching, dangerous notes of his masterpiece. How long had it been, since he had played _Don Juan_? Far too long. Conveniently ignoring the dangers of playing _that_, _here_, Erik ducked into his music-room and locked the door behind him. Before he could bar the other entrance, however, he discovered that he was not the first to search here for release from the sharp words spoken that morning.

Peering at it intently, Charles inserted what looked like a hairpin into the lock of one of Erik's chests. The boy wriggled the tool hopefully, then frowned as the catch failed to release. He sat back on his heels to study the lock.

For the briefest moment, Erik felt rage at this—albeit innocent—invasion of his privacy. The next, he was turning on his son the same contemplative gaze that Charles was favoring the lock with. Uncertain of how to proceed, Erik silently edged closer until he could kneel to the boy's level. To his credit, Charles leaped around with a guilty expression when he felt someone crouch down beside him. There were fresh tearstains on those pale, thin cheeks, and a misery Erik found uncomfortably familiar stared back at him from the child's amber gaze. "Angel, I'm sorry," Charles pleaded in a voice that managed, if only just, to avoid being a whimper. "I wanted to see more music—the fire hurt mine and yours is so beautiful . . ."

Staring into his son's eyes, Erik silently cursed Raoul de Chagny for even thinking he would light that blaze. "Let me show you," he replied, his voice gentle. Lifting up the hairpins, Erik carefully showed his boy how to add an extra twist at the end for this particular lock. He had never bothered having a key made; Erik reasoned that the day he was incapable of picking a lock was the day he ceased deserving access to the music stored in this chest.

Once Charles had mastered the lock, Erik thumbed through the compositions until he found something adequately approaching the young musician's skill level. He hesitated, then gave in to his own repressed instincts, scooping the child up in one arm and the music up in the other. He regretted this almost instantly, as one of Charles' hands pressed against his mask. Clenching his jaw, Erik placed the toddler on the piano bench. He kept his voice even, but firm. "You must not touch my mask, Charles, or I will not teach you this music. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Angel."

He should probably correct _that_ behavior as well, but at the moment there was a significant lack of more appropriate titles. 'Papa' was taken, O.G. would be ridiculous, and he loathed the thought of his own son knowing him as 'Erik'. Angel it was, and Angel it would remain until Christine saw fit to change it—one way or another.

A wry smile twisted Erik's lips as he glanced at the piece before them. This . . . he had composed this the first night he had realized the child now sitting next to him on the piano bench was his son. "What is a changeling?" Charles asked suddenly, pointing to the title.

"I see you can read more than music," Erik answered. "Someday I shall tell you. First, you must learn to play it. Do you think you will be able to do so?"

The boy looked over the score. "May I try it at half tempo first?" Erik nodded his assent. He watched carefully as the young fingers began to move over the keys. Erik had forgotten that the childish hands, long though they might be, were nowhere near capable of spanning an octave, but Charles made some creative fingering adjustments which covered for that failing. When the piece ended, Erik quietly pointed out a missed sharp and three off-tempo measures; Charles nodded and began again. After the fifth run, the teacher asked for the work to be brought up to speed.

"Very good," Erik murmured at the end of a second perfect round. "Now—close your eyes." Charles obediently began to play the piece from memory; he made a few mistakes, but corrected them instantly. "Tell me if you can hear the difference," Erik instructed and played _Changeling_ through with two slight deviations.

Charles opened his eyes when the song ended. "You changed to a third here, and again here," he said with confidence, pointing to the fourth and tenth measures.

"Excellent, Charles." He made no effort to hide the pride in his voice. Erik pulled a second composition from its place behind the first. "I believe I heard you practicing this yesterday, correct?" At the boy's nod, he pointed to a set of measures. "Why did you change the melody here?"

Charles' golden eyes glanced up as though making certain his Angel was not angry with him for modifying the composition. "It sounded a bit like something I wrote; I wanted to see if I could make it fit." Wordlessly, Erik located a blank score, a metal-nibbed pen, and an inkwell, and handed them to the child. Charles frowned in concentration, then began to scribble notes onto the staffs.

A warm, soft body suddenly pressed against Erik's other side. He smiled a little; she had been watching for at least the entire music lesson, if not the lock-picking incident before it. Slowly, Erik wrapped his arm around her and pulled Christine closer to him. He would not have thought that all three of them would fit comfortably onto the piano bench, but his son and his love were rapidly redefining Erik's idea of comfort. Christine laid her head against his shoulder and he tenderly kissed the top of it, breathing in the scent of her hair. Could this possibly be heaven?

Apparently not. "I'm going to look over the estate today. I should be back before nightfall," Raoul's voice cut into the quiet sound of Charles fingering a chord. Christine stiffened and reflexively tried to pull away; Erik held her firmly.

"Enjoy yourself," Erik replied dryly, allowing innuendo to drip from his tone. The unspoken _because we will_ lay crackling in the air between the three of them.

Deftly slipping out of his grasp, Christine gave Erik a cool frown before going to her husband. "Come back safely," she murmured, gently touching Raoul's cheek. His lips twisted in what may have passed for a grin had it not been utterly lacking humor.

"Of course. Goodbye, Charles," Raoul called softly. Immediately the boy turned around and leaped off the bench to head toward the man he knew as his father. Picking him up, Raoul gently held the soft, dark head to his shoulder for a moment before releasing him.

"Will you look for my music, Papa?" Charles questioned as he was being set down.

Raoul nodded. Erik seethed. "The fire probably destroyed it, Charles, but I will look," the Comte reassured, a flicker of a glance spitting at his erstwhile rival.

A cold smile tugged at his lips as Erik inclined his head in an ironic bow. Raoul finished his goodbyes and exited, but the damage had been done; if there was a way of recapturing the peaceful mood of earlier, Erik did not know what it was. Christine, too, seemed to be searching for a way to breach the silence; the topic she chose was not one that met his approval. "You taught my son to pick locks, Erik," she scolded, her tone soft but not quite flippant enough.

"_Au contraire,_ my dear. He already possessed that knowledge; I merely refined his skill." Erik turned from her, back to the piano that Charles had abandoned. He fingered an absent chord, knowing she would recognize it, and was rewarded with her hand tightly squeezing his shoulder.

"Not that, Erik. Please. Not with Charles and the girls in the house." Christine looked to where her son was poking at a device Erik had haphazardly set on the floor; she obviously hoped he had remembered that a child lived here now and would be getting into everything within reach.

"You don't protest it for your own sake?" He queried dryly. The last time she had heard _Don Juan_ was after he had coaxed her into a wedding dress and then, for her own safety, locked her in her room. Christine was right to worry; it had never been meant for innocent ears.

The hand on his shoulder softened. "We do have a son," Christine reminded him quietly, leaning in close to him so that her lips tickled his ear.

"Watch your tongue," Erik answered just as softly, his hand drifting to her waist of its own accord. "You don't know just how good his hearing is." They both looked to where Charles was playing; he seemed utterly absorbed in his own world. "By the way, I forgot to inquire as to how much you heard, this morning."

"Does it matter?" Pulling away from him a little, Christine seemed to be making an attempt to compose herself. While he applauded the effort, the effect wasn't where she might have hoped it would be.

Erik watched her steadily. "I suppose it doesn't." He gave himself free reign to absorb her face, noting the changes in her from the girl she had been. There was sorrow, in her dark eyes, and knowledge that she had not possessed five years ago. Yet she was still his Christine, his beloved angel, and an old, treasured memory flashed into his mind. That sweet face, no longer innocent, as she woke for the first and only time in his arms . . . her head lifting from where she had rested against his chest as she leaned up to caress his cold lips with her warm mouth, beginning a new cascade of emotions and desires . . .

"Erik," Christine whispered hoarsely. She was leaning up against him on the bench, and he knew the passion in her eyes was a reflection of his own gaze. Wrapping his arms around her, he trailed his fingertips along her spine . . .

Charles saved them both. "Angel? What does this do?" He was pointing to another of Erik's contraptions. With a soft moan meant for Christine's ears alone, Erik pulled away from her.

Neither of them noticed Caron's disapproving glance as she passed by the open door.

_Christine_

Charles had been given a few of the strange trinkets kept around the music-room and returned to his nurses; now, Erik stood with his back to her, seemingly absorbed with the books on his shelves. What level of agony and ecstasy was this, for him to finally be real, not a hallucination or a dream—for Christine to be able to stand and stare at him, letting her eyes rove hungrily over his back, his arms, his legs, the long, thin hands clasped behind him—and yet for there to be this un-crossable distance between them? Just looking at him was worth everything, but it was an eternal distance short of what she needed.

_Oh, wanton, wretched woman_, she thought, her breath catching in her throat at Erik's slightest shift. When had she become so needy for his touch? Christine had lived five years lacking true touch, with a husband at her side who had never done more than desperately kiss her, hoping that he would be able to light some spark of response. Yet Erik, with that golden gaze just minutes ago, had drawn her to him as easily as if she were tied with spider-silk. Perhaps she was. His head had turned, and Erik was regarding her with one eye, his stare lingering over her as thoroughly as she had been drinking in him. There was a deep and almost feral delight in that eye; goodness, she _hadn't_ said that thought out loud, had she?

"Wanton, my dear?" He said in an undertone, not troubling to take the amusement from his tone. She _had_ said it out loud. Christine lifted her hand to her mouth and whirled around, putting her back to him as shame touched her cheeks. To say such a thing in front of a man who had never been her husband . . .

No, Erik had never been her husband. He was only the father of her child and the deepest love of her heart, and she knew him as she knew no one else. Or she had, once, when their two souls reached a level of understanding Christine had barely been able to comprehend. That had happened long before the night he had stolen her from the midst of a crowded auditorium; they had understood each other even when he was nothing but an angelic teacher. It was why she had been both relieved and horrified to find out he was merely a man . . .

His breath was on her ear, his body as close as he could be without touching her. Erik never had been one to initiate physical contact. "Sing for me," he suggested, his tone low.

"Sing _with_ me," Christine retorted. She turned into his arms. "Why did you have to bait Raoul so when he left?"

The golden eyes that had been warmly staring into hers hardened. "I wasn't the only one baiting an opponent in that moment, if you cared to notice."

"He feels threatened by you. I _wish_ you two wouldn't use Charles and me as game-pieces. This is not chess; we are not made of wood." Unlike pawns, Christine knew, she and her son were fragile—rough handling by either of these men and they would break.

Erik ignored the second half of her statement to lean in and breathe lightly upon her neck. "Should he feel threatened?"

Fingers moving without her leave to do so, Christine found her hands in his hair, cautiously stroking the ties of his mask. "If you're trying to seduce me, you're going to have to remove this."

He froze, the hands that had slowly moved to her back tightening, digging into her spine. "_Don't_, Christine. Don't even consider it."

"Don't consider letting you seduce me, or don't consider removing your mask? I _miss_ you, Erik. All of you." When he didn't answer, Christine sighed and let her hands drop to the back of his neck. "Haven't you learned to trust me? Haven't you learned that I love _you_?"

"You're wearing a wedding ring, my dear," Erik stepped away, distancing himself from her. "And, if I may remind you, it is not mine. Kindly do not ask me to do anything you would hate me for; you should know by now that I have a certain difficulty in refusing your wishes."

He had to know she wasn't asking him to seduce her; Erik was simply being stubborn. "Removing your mask would not make me hate you, as you know very well."

A slow grin twisted what she could see of his mouth. "But Christine, darling, this mask is almost nine-tenths of what is keeping me from kissing you right now, and I'm quite sure your husband would disapprove."

"Oh." Christine looked away from him, embarrassed. In a very quiet voice, she made an attempt to change the subject. "What were you and Raoul fighting over this morning?"

"What we have been fighting over since our first realization of the other's existence."

"Oh," she murmured again. Silence filled the space between them.

After what he apparently felt was a long enough pause, Erik continued. "More specifically, he was accusing me of stealing Charles and setting your house on fire. Thereafter, I accused him of stealing _you_ and Charles, and our discussion degenerated to the point at which you entered it."

"He _what_?" Christine stared at him. "How could he even think you would do either? And _you_ were the one who _gave_ me to him, if I remember correctly."

Erik raised his eyebrows at her. "Considering what he knows of my past, it is not so absurd an assumption. A phantom gets blamed for many things he had nothing to do with. As for giving you to him, I was dying; you needed protection."

Christine borrowed one of her beloved's favorite tools, the long, even stare that considered an opponent from head to toe. "For a man who has been dead five years, you are causing an incredible amount of contention."

Wincing slightly behind the mask, Erik sighed and ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. "I thought we had already covered this. I had no choice. I'm sorry. Do you think I _wanted_ to watch from a distance as you raised my son with him? Do you honestly believe it didn't _kill_ me, every moment spent knowing that you were married to someone else?"

"Then you do still love me." It was utterly unfair of her to ask; that quiet 'beloved', last night, when he had helped her from the boat, answered any questions she might have had after the shattering emotions of their duet. But he had not yet said it; she had not heard the words from him in five years, and she was aching to hear them now.

"Christine Daaé, if you doubt for _one moment_ that my love for you has done anything but grow, you are severely mistaken." His tone was exasperated, reminiscent of the way he might speak to her if he was correcting an improperly sung note she had already failed to hit twice, but he was smiling.

Both of them chose to ignore his mistake. Here, in this music room, there was no Christine de Chagny.

--

Lindaleriel: I'm glad that you think I'm keeping him so well in character; I'm trying to. There will be more of him in the next chapter, I believe. I (usually) am quite fond of the boy, which is why I try to be relatively nice to him in my stories. I really do hate doing such horrible things to him . . . he's a sweetheart. However, my own heart was captured long ago by a certain deformed genius. I'm impressed that you like my story enough to keep reading despite the ECness. Thanks!

Mominator124: Eww. ECR. Ewwww ewww eww. Lol, Christine with cooties! The image made me laugh--a gradeschool Raoul and Erik shoving Christine back and forth--"you take her"! Thanks for running over to Angela Gloriosa, by the way; you are awesome, m'dear. Thanks for all the reviews! And as much as I like him, I must admit I had fun bringing Raoul to the boiling point--the house, his jealousy, the argument with Christine . . . poor boy.

phantomlovin4ever: Another loyal reader? Why, thank you! Here's an update for you--enjoy and thanks much!


	10. Chapter 10

_Raoul_

The majestic gray carriage bearing the Chagny crest passed many inns and alehouses on its journey between Paris and the ruined manor. Each time, Raoul eyed the establishments longingly, but the order to stop never passed his lips. A stiff drink would be welcome to fortify him for the sight awaiting him at the end of this trip, but he knew he would not stop at just one drink. Not with the memory of Christine and Charles snuggled up to Erik on a piano bench, the picture of a perfect, loving family, to haunt his mind. Not with the accusations he and the former Phantom had flung at each other still echoing in his ears. No, drinking would not be the answer. It was never something he had been tempted by before; Raoul felt an obscure sort of pride that he did not give into alcohol now, on what surely was one of the darkest days of his life.

Through every other pain, every other tragedy, he had always had Christine's presence to ease him. She had been with him, she had been his, and Raoul occasionally even persuaded himself to believe that he was the man she thought of as she fell asleep. For hours and even days at a time he had managed to forget that her heart belonged to someone long dead; those had been the brightest, happiest moments of their marriage. But this—this darkness, the pain of losing his home, was overshadowed by the pain of knowing that Christine was not coming to see the ruins with him. Raoul had not bothered to ask; he did not want to know her answer.

And the noblest part of him _wouldn't_ ask her. Not when this was the first day, the first average, ordinary day in five years, that she could spend time basking in the presence of her Angel.

He could not request that she spend it with him instead.

Raoul's first warning was the scent of ash on the wind. Burned . . . still burning, even, the smoky smell that inspired fear in the hearts of any who owned a home. The carriage halted and he slowly forced himself to exit it, his eyes never leaving the smoldering ruins.

Smoke was not meant to rise from ground white with snow into the crystal clarity of a winter sky; the gray burnt wood of the former Chagny manor blended into the pale snow surrounding it, the dark forest behind it, becoming a mere specter of reality, not anything that had form and meaning in life beyond dreams.

Tears blurred his vision as he gazed at the broken shell of his home. Here he had grown; here lost parents, here mourned his brother's passing, here had loved his wife and raised his . . . Charles.

And as much as he wanted to, as hard as he tried to, in his heart Raoul de Chagny knew that he would not find the Phantom's fingerprints at the scene of this crime.

Wordlessly, he climbed back into the carriage and ordered it to return to Paris. There was nothing more to see.

_Caron_

Caron bit her lip as she paused in the door to the music room. She hated to interrupt the scene in front of her, but neither she nor Marie had been able to calm Charles when he'd quite abruptly burst into tears. He missed his home and his music, he had whimpered, and refused to let either of his nurses comfort him. Not, Caron knew, that they would have been much help; the second loss of a home had numbed both the sisters into an unnatural quiet. They had been able to keep the pain at bay yesterday through hard work, but in the heavy tension around the lake-house this morning, tears readily burst into bloom.

The sisters had lost their family in early winter, and had been taken in by the Chagnys immediately after; those first four months of learning to live again, coping with the grief and loss, had been sheltered in the warm comfort of the Chagny manor. For that home, too, to be suddenly taken away—albeit in a very different form—hurt more than Caron wanted to think about.

She hesitated again, looking at Erik and Christine. They were obviously absorbed in each other; their gazes never strayed from the face of their companion. The quiet tones of their conversation did not carry words to her ears, but the deep emotions concealed within them reached her quite well. Couldn't she leave them for just a little longer? Charles would be fine, and it took no ingénue to see how much these two needed to talk.

However, they had both turned, and were now looking at her expectantly. Christine's gaze was open; Caron found that she could not force herself to meet the yellow eyes. .

"Caron?"

"Forgive me, Christine," Caron answered her employer's question, forcing her mind back to the present. "Charles is crying for you—he won't listen to us . . . " She let her words die.

Christine gave her a sad smile and started for the door. "Yesterday was trying for all of us. He's in a new place and he's frightened . . . I'm coming," This last appeared to be for Christine's own benefit than for Erik or Caron, as the young mother was already out of the room when she murmured it.

Turning to follow, Caron paused to glance back at the masked man. Erik was standing with his back to her, obviously absorbed in the music on the piano, and she felt a spark of her native curiosity rising up from beneath the apathy she had been wrapped in since yesterday. What had happened to bind Christine to this majestic specter? Caron had realized that this man was Charles' father even before she saw his golden gaze; she had seen his hands first, those long, thin hands that held a promise of what Charles' would someday grow to be. Why had he appeared now?

Where had he been for the last five years? It was apparent to anyone with eyes that Christine and he still cared deeply for each other; what had happened to cause the Comte and Comtess to marry?

And what—_what_—lay behind that mask?

Charles was a handsome child, and not all of his appeal could be directly traced to Christine. Surely this masked father of his was the source of the boy's strong good looks, so why would he choose to hide his face?

Caron realized that she was staring.

No movement came from the black-clad man at the piano, but she could see tension in his stance. His voice came cold and even. "Was there anything else, mademoiselle?"

"No," Caron whispered, beginning to back away. That voice—how had she not noticed how terrifyingly beautiful his voice was?

He was dangerous.

But curiosity is a fatal vice.

The words were out of her mouth before she could think. "Monsieur, I don't mean to pry . . ."

Erik's voice hardened, sharpening "Then do not. I'm quite certain that Christine will be able to answer any questions you might have." The dismissal in his tone had her into the hallway before Caron realized she had even moved.

_Christine_

Lunch was a quiet affair. Nadir had drifted in and was making a gallant but painful effort at conversation; the rest of them—Erik, Caron, Marie, Christine, and Charles—were quiet. Christine spent most of the meal engaged with her son, coaxing him to eat just a little more; the boy had inherited his father's aversion to too much food. She was not so distracted, however, that she missed the faint tension on Caron's face, or the nervously curious glances the girl would occasionally shoot at Erik when she thought he wasn't looking. For his part, the masked man seemed content to observe the rest of them, once or twice engaging Nadir in a half-hearted debate but otherwise remaining quite silent. If he noticed the looks Caron was giving him, he gave no sign.

But then, Erik had long ago become accustomed to ignoring other people's interest in him.

Christine had to give them credit; used to caring for themselves, both of the men were quick to offer their help in clearing away the remains of the meal. She shooed them away, recognizing the telltale tightness in Erik's manner that indicated that he was quickly going to be sinking into a brood. Of any of them, Nadir had the most practice at enticing him out of his melancholy moods, so Christine waved them off to allow her beloved's one true friend to ease his irritability.

A quick nod to Marie sent her to the nursery, Charles—his earlier tears quieted—docilely in tow. As she had intended, this left Christine alone with Caron, the innocent task of dishwashing before them.

It worried Christine, seeing Caron sink into the same quiet stillness that she had displayed when first arriving in the Chagny home. She had been just fifteen then, with her thirteen-year-old sister following desperately at her heels. A good year had passed before the girl had fully opened up into the cheerful, bubbly personality natural to her; Christine did not want to see the loss of the Chagny manor throwing her surrogate daughter-sister into another such painful solitude. Christine knew it was . . . odd, that she herself was displaying less of a pain at the loss of her home than the younger woman was; but Caron had been very attached to the first place she had began to heal from her and Marie's family's deaths, and Christine—well, as much as she was mourning the loss of the home, Christine had other problems to worry at.

She had thought she would have to bring up Caron's interest herself in casual conversation; instead, as soon as the others had left the room, the girl turned to Christine and quietly started, "I have some questions . . . what can you explain to me? About—about everything. This." She indicated Erik's home with a wave of her hand. "Why we're here—what happened. Am I making sense? I don't mean to pry, Christine, truly I don't, but . . . "

"But you're curious, as you should be." Christine sighed and began clearing off the table. "I believe that you've known for some time now that Raoul—" Christine reflexively looked about, making certain her son was not in hearing range—"is not Charles' father." Caron only nodded. "And," Christine added gently, "from your lack of surprise, I can only guess that you've realized Erik is. It's . . . a long and painful story, Caron. I loved him for a year and then some before I realized it, and in the same month I finally allowed myself to love him, I lost him. For the past five years, I've believed Erik to be dead."

The red-haired girl was now standing at the sink, scrubbing ruthlessly at the dishes as she listened. "Christine, you've been married to Raoul for five years, or almost—haven't you?'

A sad smile lifted the corners of Christine's mouth. "That, Caron, is where the pain comes in. It's something you only ever hear about in fairytales and scandals; the notorious, cold-hearted _femme fatale_ who falls in love with two very different men. Can you imagine my surprise when—at a year younger than you are now, mind—I realized I was one of those women?" Caron was concentrating on the dishes, so it was only Christine who noticed the two men she was speaking of, standing like distorted reflections of each other just outside the two kitchen doorways. She bit her lip, but continued as if she had not seen them; perhaps Caron was not the only one who needed to hear this. "I loved them both. I still do. I spent months torn between them—my childhood sweetheart, whose devotion to me had never been anything but pure and absolute, and my fallen Angel, who loved me with a passionate and staggering intensity that I was utterly unable to comprehend. Each choice, in a way, terrified me; I was easily frightened, then. And one night . . . one night Erik asked me to make a decision; to stop hurting us all in this web I had so unwillingly tangled us in. I had spent a year here, Caron—a _year_ in this home, without ever being so much as touched. If I knew anything, I knew that I could trust him. And it was such a simple thing he asked; for me to return here, for one last night, to tell him of my decision.

"He swore that, no matter what my choice was, he would take me to the surface at any time I wished. I promised to return.

"But I did not choose, Caron. I never chose.

"I told Raoul of my promise; and, fearful of what might happen should I say no to Erik, I allowed myself to believe that I needed to leave the Opera House entirely. I was scared. Raoul asked me to run away with him; I accepted. It was not a choice between them, not how I saw it; it was only a way to get away for a while, to feel safe, for Raoul had always made me feel safe. To my mind, our talk of marriage then was as much an act as our engagement had always been. We were to leave immediately after my last performance; I would not be going down to this house on the lake to say goodbye . . ." Christine knew that tears were running down her cheeks; she knew that both Erik and Raoul had given up all pretense of absence and were in the kitchen, both wanting to comfort her and neither giving way to the other.

"Never," she whispered softly, "never have I regretted anything as much as not keeping that promise."

"Beloved-"

"_Cherie_-"

Caron spun around at the two voices that spoke as one; her hand touched her mouth in surprised embarrassment. Christine wanted nothing so much as to never face either of them again; but she was stronger now, a mother of twenty-one, than had been the slip of a chorus-girl she was at sixteen. Slowly, she turned to face her two loves, letting the tears freely drip down her cheeks. "Forgive me," she pleaded softly, looking each of them in the eye. "Forgive me . . ."

A moment passed as Erik and Raoul exchanged a glance; then the masked musician was holding Christine, stroking her back as his voice whispered soothingly into her ear. "Beloved, beloved, don't cry; yours were the most gentle of the mistakes made that night . . ."

"Story-time is over, for now, Caron," Raoul murmured gently to the girl. "You will undoubtedly hear the rest later. For now, would you please . . . ?" Caron quickly nodded and left the three of them alone.

---

**A/N**: Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry; I know, I'm horrible for taking this long to update; I was just having some issues with this chapter. Forgive me? Please? The next one should come more quickly.

CrazyCarl: Thanks so much! Yes, the tension was quite fun to write :D

marykate65: Gracias, m'dear! Glad you're liking this so much . . . as for what I have in store, well . . . evil grin I could tell you, but then Erik would have to punjab you. And if Erik punjabs you, you would never finish writing _Fleur_, which would be a **bad** thing because I want to know where it's going!

MetalMyersJason: Thanks, I'm glad you like it so much! Here's a bit more for you . . .

intoxicated by eriks music: Yes, fluffy sap is good stuff. Thanks:D

Mominator124: As always, thanks millions for your review! Yes, the entire situation here is just so hard for them to deal with . . . I mean, really, what can they do! I love writing little ErikCharles bits, so you can look forward to at least a few more of them. Here's another chapter for you:)


	11. Chapter 11

_Erik _

Gently, he pressed his thumb into Christine's lips, silencing her torrent of apologies and half-formed explanations. It took all of his self-control to quiet her with his fingertips instead of his mouth, but Erik forced himself into good behavior; after all, her husband was watching. "Shh, my dear," he murmured, stroking her tears away. "Your mistake that evening was simple and innocent—and no matter how hard I tried at the time to convince you otherwise, it did not merit _my_ behavior. Or had you forgotten?"

Christine looked down; he knew she had no desire to remember most of that night. It had been an unmitigated disaster on all sides; from the moment he had stolen her off the stage in Mephistopheles' costume, he had set each of them on the path that led to this painful conclusion.

Raoul's short, harsh bark of laughter turned them both to him. "How could she _forget_ being forced into an engagement?" Both of them turned to look at him. "But then, since you obviously didn't want to marry me, _I_ am forced to wonder whether or not you actually went willingly. I guess, though, that only one will ever mattered between the pair of you: his." Erik felt his lips twisting in anger. He could see his rival struggling to hold back his words, but they burst from Raoul's mouth unrestrained, cold and painfully insinuating. "In fact, Christine, I must wonder if you didn't always go . . . _willingly_." He spat. Raoul stepped closer. "How often did you sleep here, Christine? How many nights that I mourned for you did you spend in the arms of your murderous _Angel_?"

Christine gasped, tears appearing in her wide eyes at her husband's accusation. She wasn't allowed the opportunity to reply, however, as Erik's fist interrupted her when it savagely connected with Raoul's jaw. The Comte stumbled back; Erik shook his hand disdainfully.

"Erik!" Christine cried in dismay. "Raoul . . . Erik!" She pulled away from him and stepped hesitantly to her husband, who was cradling his sore jaw. Reaching up, Christine tenderly touched Raoul's hand with her own, but he moved back and out of reach. "Raoul, are you all—"

"No, Christine, I am _not_ all right," he fumed.

"That would make three of us," Erik observed lightly.

"You're not helping," Christine shot back at him.

Erik glowered. "He is?"

"If you hadn't 'helped' so much five years ago, none of us would be here!" Raoul retorted.

"Stop it." Christine said this quietly, but the impact on them, with her threat from that morning hanging in the air, was immediate. Both men quieted and looked at her. "You shouldn't hit him, Erik. It won't make this any easier. And _you_," Christine turned to Raoul. Her voice was tight with pain. "How could you say that to me? I've only ever given myself to one man, _once_," Christine informed them, her voice hard despite her tears. "And in the sight of Nadir and God, he was my husband."

Christine had left the room before her words caught up to him. "Wait a moment," Erik mused slowly. He had not truly registered Raoul's comment the previous evening about getting the Chagny marriage annulled . . .

She had been _completely_ faithful to him.

Even in marriage; even past death.

He didn't deserve such love.

_Raoul_

Raoul slowly made his way to the Louis-Philippe room and lay down on the bed, resolutely ignoring the thoughts that this room normally brought forth. He regretted speaking so cruelly to Christine, yet he was still angry with her. She had not been with him this morning, seeing the destruction of their home—never mind that he had _nobly_ not asked her to come. Five years of living with the crumbs of Erik and Christine's relationship had not prepared him for being confronted with the living and breathing reality of it. He had forgotten how much this hurt, swinging back and forth between a desire to protect Christine and angry jealousy.

And then, the admission that she had not meant to marry him after all . . .

He had understood it, in part. He knew better than anyone—save Erik—how Christine's mind worked; sometimes Raoul even allowed himself to believe he knew her better than her blasted Angel did. Though her illusions were shattered, her beliefs and hopes scattered on the ground through Erik's wickedness, Christine still existed in the partial dream-world of her own mind, a world where magic was more real than science and love always conquered death. To her, the wedding plans would easily have become just another extended role-play of their pretend engagement, and Raoul would never have known the difference until it was too late. Her dreams back then had been more believable than reality; it was not until the night Erik kidnapped her from Faust and _truly_ tore apart all of her imagined fairy tales that Christine grew up

And she had grown again, the night, a month later, in which she returned to give Erik the wedding invitation; _that_ night. The Christine Raoul had found in the basement of the Opera the next afternoon had been a very different woman from the timid, but slowly strengthening, creature who had left him the previous day to keep her promise to her maestro.

Understanding her decisions and beliefs did not make them hurt less.

_Erik_

He found her curled on the piano bench, her knees tucked up to her chin as she stared at nothing. Erik stopped, wondering whether he shouldn't just leave her alone, but Christine raised her face to him and smiled bitterly. "We've had a good marriage, you know. Peaceful. Loving, even. We hardly ever fight; we've seen too much real pain to try and inflict more on each other."

Seeing the hurt in her gaze, Erik silently cursed Raoul de Chagny to the devil. He picked Christine up and sat on a couch, cradling her in his arms. It was awkward; of course it was awkward. They had not been so close for five years. Somehow, though, the awkwardness disappeared when Christine asked quietly, "Is your mask still the only thing keeping you from kissing me?"

Erik gazed down at her. Slowly, he answered, "Yes."

Her fingers reached up and tugged at the white leather ties. Erik let her; the mask fell to the couch beside them. There wasn't even a flicker of surprise in Christine's eyes as they absorbed his terrible features; instead, there was warmth. "I've missed you," she murmured, brushing her fingers along his cheeks and down to his lips.

Raising an eyebrow at her, Erik nibbled lightly on her fingers but forced himself to speak his mind. "I would love nothing better than to kiss you, Christine," he murmured. "But are you doing this because you want me as well, or because you are angry with Raoul?"

A soft gasp was his answer, as she leaned forward to bury her face in his neck. "I love you! I have been wanting you to kiss me again for _five years_," Christine protested quietly.

He waited.

In an even lower tone, she finally added, "and if my husband is going to think of me as a harlot no matter what I do, why should I not allow myself to kiss the man I love? Is that so wicked?"

Sighing, Erik gently maneuvered her far enough away to force Christine to look him in the eye. His mouth twisted in self-depreciating amusement. "My opinion is biased, and you must remember that my conscience left me before you were born. The choice is yours, beloved, as always."

For the first time, Christine's smile seemed as warped as his. She leaned forward slowly, lifting her mouth to his, and Erik tensed. The woman he loved would not do this . . . his Christine was incapable of betraying vows she held sacred, no matter how hurt and angry she might feel. So who was this creature in his lap who was—stopping?

Yes, stopping. Christine's lips were mere centimeters from his when her face crumbled, her chin dropping in defeat. "This is wrong."

Erik smiled slightly and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek instead before tucking her in against his chest. "Good girl." Christine shook in his arms as she cried; he hummed to her, hoping to sooth her. He wanted to kiss her; of course he did. But only when it was for the right reasons. This moment was enough; to be able to hold her, with the knowledge refreshed in his soul that she would not shy away from his face, was beautiful and fulfilling in its own right.

_Christine_

Needless to say, dinner had been tense. Raoul and Erik were absolutely silent; the two men acknowledged each other with only a curt nod. Caron was occupied with coaxing Charles to eat his meal, while Christine and Marie each made stilted efforts at a conversation. The so-called 'family time' lasted a grand total of ten minutes, after which Erik fled and Raoul tried to apologize to Christine. She found that she was not ready to forgive him yet; she could feel the look on her face, a long stare managing to be both cold and hurt, cutting into him.

Raoul's mouth had tightened into an angry line and he, too, had stalked out of the kitchen. Even Charles was now noticing that there were frictions between the adults, and instead of continuing to fight with Caron, he quietly ate every bit of his dinner. The young boy even took his plate to the sink, exactly as his Angel had done. The gold eyes were dark when they turned to regard the three women solemnly; Christine felt her lower lip tremble a little at the sorrow in Charles' gaze. She opened her arms and the four-year-old swiftly crawled into her lap

"It was something I did, wasn't it?" Charles asked finally. He had not been crying, Christine noticed, but his beautiful voice was tight with sorrow.

"Hush now, Charles, what do you mean?" The question seemed innocent as she asked it; she could hope, for a moment at least, that it was not the obvious harshness between Erik and Raoul that was upsetting the boy.

Caron and Marie, who had been finishing the dishes, each turned to stare at Charles, waiting for his answer.

"Papa and Angel are angry," Charles' reply dashed their hopes that he might be unhappy about some other small childish worry. "Papa never gets angry. And I never thought Angel could get angry at Papa. _Is_ Angel angry at Papa? Or are they angry at me?" Charles lifted his head from her shoulder to meet Christine's gaze, his eyes begging for understanding. "I've tried to be good, Mama, I have! I didn't mean to—"

Christine groaned softly and pulled him closer against her. "Shh, Charles, you've been wonderful. Oh, my boy, you have been _so good_ for Mama; I'm proud of you. Shh, it's all right. . ." She trailed off, stroking his dark hair as he pushed his face into her shoulder for comfort. When his shaking had subsided, Christine gently forced him to look at her. "Charles, whatever happens between Papa and Angel, it is _not your fault_. Do you understand?" The boy nodded.

"We love you very, very much," she whispered, stroking his cheek with her finger. "Especially Angel and Papa. But Papa has been angry at Angel for a very long time, and Angel . . ." now, she knew, there was a bitterness to her smile, a wry and painful knowledge that her son would not recognize. "Angel," Christine continued quietly, "gets angry more easily than I might wish."

"Why is Papa angry with Angel?"

Closing her eyes, Christine sighed. There was no easy answer to that question. She was silent for a long moment, and when she spoke, her clear voice was cluttered with held-back tears. "Papa is angry with Angel because Angel . . . because I . . ." _Because we love each other, your Angel and I. _Christine bit her lip.

What could she say, after all? No mother wanted her child to learn that anger could be born of love.

"I once took something from your Papa, Charles, something that was very precious to him." Coming suddenly from the doorway behind her, Erik's voice was even. "It was, perhaps, wrong of me to steal it the way I did . . . but it was—is—precious to me as well. I hold it dearly." She swallowed hard at the tenderness in his tone and knew that, though he was speaking to their son, his words were for her alone.

The boy in her lap gazed past Christine's shoulder to the masked man, his worry and hurt temporarily soothed by his mother's arms and his Angel's voice. "You should not steal, Angel. And you very much should not steal from my Papa," he informed Erik solemnly.

A curious tilt of Charles' head brought his temple against Christine's left cheek. "What did you take from him?"

Erik was standing close behind her now; Christine could feel his fingertips lightly ghosting along her right cheekbone, and she leaned into the caress. Erik cupped her face gently in his palm. "A rose," he answered the boy softly. "A white rose, fairer than any other, who once sang for a nightingale."

A sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth. A nightingale . . . yes, he always had been her nightingale. Her dark angel, her golden-voiced creature of the night . . . how she had missed him! The touch of his cold hand against her skin was tender, but the way he stroked her cheek with his thumb reminded her of other embraces and the fire of his kiss.

Oblivious to the affection his parents were displaying, Charles laughed. "Roses cannot sing, silly Angel!" he protested; Christine could still hear the smile in his voice as he corrected his erstwhile tutor.

"Ah, but this one could." Erik's hands, light and swift, drew the child up into his arms. "This was a most special rose, Charles, and she sang more beautifully than any other creature on this earth."

"Even Mama?"

Erik was silent for a moment. When he answered, his voice was quiet. "She sounded very much like your mother, Charles. Very much like her indeed."

_Christine_

Charles had been sung to sleep and Erik was in the music-room. The girls, too, were likely asleep, so it was as Christine had intended it to be; Raoul entered the kitchen late at night to find her waiting for him, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands.

"There is more hot water in the teakettle," she told him quietly, knowing that any conversation would have to start with her.

"Thank you," Raoul answered shortly, but his voice was not so very harsh. He gathered a cup and busied himself making his drink; Christine just watched him calmly. When Raoul could not fiddle about any longer, he sighed and sat next to her at the table. His blue gaze was direct as he asked, "Are you ready to listen to me yet?"

She almost—almost—smiled. "Yes. It would be rather pointless for me to wait up for you otherwise, would it not?"

The Comte de Chagny pressed his lips together and turned away from her a little. "You even speak the way he does. I hadn't noticed that before."

Christine stiffened. "Did you want to make up this fight, or just start another one?" Raoul was silent. "You of all people—you of _all_ people, Raoul, for you have had to live with the fact for five years—should know how closely we are bound. Yes, I sometimes speak as he does; and when I sing, it is not my own inflection you hear. I thought you had learned that Lotte disappeared long ago."

"Please do not remind me of the years that I have spent trying to _forget_ how closely _my wife_ is tied to a madman. I know that you are not Lotte," he nearly spat out her childhood nickname. "_Lotte_ would not have fallen in love with her Demon of Music!"

"Lotte was a child!" After this exclamation, Christine forced herself to speak calmly. "And you know that he is not mad."

Raoul bowed his head, and his voice was quieter when he spoke. "No, he is not mad. Forgive me, Christine; I wanted to apologize to you for what I said earlier, yet here I am arguing with you again."

"I know that you're angry with me. You have every right to be, after all. Even I cannot deny that." Christine closed her eyes and held her face in her hands. She knew she was hiding from him, but at that moment it just didn't matter. "But that you would think me that loose—that _wanton_ . . ." Christine paused, and an unbidden echo of 'Wanton woman?' in Erik's voice came to her mind. She blushed and hoped that Raoul did not notice. "It tore my _soul_, nearly, loving you both. And it's happening all over again. How could you cheapen something so priceless by making the love I have for Erik into mere lust?"

He did notice her blush; when she took her hands away from her face, she could see that in his eyes. But Raoul did not want to know the reason behind the flush to her cheeks, and so he did not ask. Instead, he murmured, "It was wrong of me to say it, Christine. I'm sorry."

"Me too," she answered quietly. Raoul nodded once and stood, placing his mug into the sink and making to leave the kitchen. Christine watched him hesitate at the door, then he slowly turned back to her, a guarded hope in his gaze.

"I don't suppose you'll—"

Christine looked away. "No, Raoul. I will sleep on the couch tonight. It's better that way."

His voice was cool again when he slowly replied, "I see." They stared at each other, knowing that the bridges between them were not truly repaired, then Raoul left her with a flat, "Good night, Christine."

For a long while, she stared into her cooling chocolate, wondering how she was ever going to solve this tangle.

Eventually, Christine decided that there was no chance of her coming upon an epiphany this late at night, so she gathered up her night-things from the bag she had left them in that morning under the sink and headed for the music room.

She was not expecting to meet Caron dashing from the room in tears, her mouth set in terror. Eyes widening, Christine gently caught the girl and held her; the red-head desperately clutched at her shoulders. "Don't go in there, Christine," Caron begged, the frightened tone of her voice sending tremors into the pit of Christine's stomach. "Don't go in there, he'll kill you! He'll _kill_ you! Christine please . . . " The girl collapsed against her, sobbing.

"Hush there," she murmured into the dark red hair. "Hush, Caron." Christine gently rubbed the teenager's back. Had she only been a year younger than this? No wonder she had been incapable of choosing . . . but that had been real fear in Caron's voice.

She could guess what had inspired it.

"Caron, listen to me," Christine sighed. "He will not hurt you." At this, the young woman's head raised in disbelief. "Oh, he'll frighten you," she assured dryly. "He'll terrify you right out of your wits. But Erik is incapable of physically harming you—or me."

The girl stared at her for a moment. "How can you be sure?" Christine didn't answer; when she pulled away from Caron and began moving toward the music-room, the young nurse's voice rose in fright. "How can you be sure! Christine, don't!"

She turned back and motioned toward the nursery. "Go to bed, Caron. It will be all right. I promise." Christine put just enough steel into her tone to insure that she would be obeyed; with one last trembling glance, Caron fled.

Tightening her hand into a frustrated fist—difficult conversations, apparently, never came singly—Christine walked into the music-room.

Erik stood with his back to her, the utter stillness of his manner chilling. For a moment he blinded even _her_ eyes, and all she could see was the Phantom in his dark glory, his anger freezing the very air around him.

Then Christine's vision cleared, and he was once again her Erik, her maestro, and beyond the anger was his pain. The white mask lay crumpled on the floor between them, a crushed pale soul . . . she could imagine Caron's hand, different from her own and yet eerily similar in its actions, creeping up to tear it away.

She found, to her utter exasperation, that she could not be angry with him. Not when he hadn't even raised his voice to Caron, though Christine knew his quiet hiss could be as frightening as his fury. He had not asked to be born looking like a corpse; he had not asked for the insidious curiosity of teenage girls.

Slowly walking up to him, Christine left the mask where it lay and gently soothed his back with her hand as she pressed herself against his side. Gradually, Erik turned his head to look down at her, the expression in his eyes carefully blank. When her gaze did not accuse him, he sighed and buried his face in her hair, pulling her into his arms. "I'm sorry," Erik murmured. "I should not have frightened her. I should have been paying attention . . . I'm sorry."

"Later, I will ask you what you said to scare her so," Christine answered quietly. "But Caron will be all right; I will stop by and comfort her more in a while." She paused, then more softly, added, "I'm sorry that I didn't see her curiosity in time to prevent this; some indignities should not have to be experienced twice."

That forced a short chuckle out of him. "Yes, the incident was rather similar. Though I think I frightened you more than I did her. And how do you know, dear heart, that I had to say anything at all?" Erik gestured bitterly to his face. "This is quite enough to send a young woman away in tears, as you well understand."

"Lotte was a child," she repeated herself, this time to another man. "As is Caron. But you do not frighten _me_." Christine raised her face enough to see his and smiled, tracing his cheek with her hand.

Erik closed his eyes and quietly relished her gentle touch. "Angel," he whispered in her ear.

**-Chapter End-**

**A/N**: Just a note—school is starting, so my updates will be (even more) rare. Sorry! It's what I get for writing three stories at a time. Forgive me? Please?

As for the review replies—when I see it in the guidelines, or a mod tells me I need to not reply, I will happily and swiftly comply. Until then—well, I trust FF.N enough that I disbelieve they would punish writers for rules that are not –in- the rules. So here are mine.

Oh yes—thanks much to **Mominator** for providing me with one of the lines in Raoul's bit (hope you don't mind that I'm shamelessly stealing it) in one of her reviews. Merci, m'dear, as always. Kudos to whoever can spot it!

**phantomlovin4ever**: Updating for you now! Glad you like it. Thanks!

**grotto1**: Thanks for enjoying this—heh, yeah, the mayhem potential is very, very high here. I'm glad you like it so much, and many thanks for your reviews!

**EvilStorm**: Ah, reviews like yours make me sigh happily. Yeah, the three (four) of them are really and truly messed up, so I didn't want to ignore that. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing this little tale of mine! And as for an easy ending . . .

(dark laughter, menacing and wicked, issues from ErikMuse)

I swear to you, the ending will be **anything** but easy. Mwuahahahaha!

**Onelastchance**: grins and bows Wow, glad you're loving it! The "Think of Me" duet is where the whole idea started, so I'm glad you liked it!

**Phantomluvr: **Thanks! Yes, I feel sorry for them all—so much pain, and so few ways to deal with it. grin I'm glad you noticed Erik's particular ability to sound elegant when he's fighting with someone; I work to maintain that part of his character. Thanks much for reading! (my email cleared up your confusion, btw, right? I hope so).

**Hisinspiration**: Lol, here's an update for you. I'm glad that you're liking this story so much; yeah, I usually like Raoul pretty well, so I'm trying to keep him human. Thanks for your review!

**Clever Lass**: Hey CL! Thanks for your reviews, as ever; yes, I'm rather enjoying the tension here myself. Glad you liked the lyric changes. Here's an update (finally . . . .) for you!

**Mominator**: We really need to cure your ECRness, lol. Yep, I wanted that little show of bravery—continuing even though they were listening in—to show just how much she really has grown up. When you look at the difference between 16 and 21 . . . wow. Lots of changes. And she had become a mother besides. Glad you liked it; here's more of Raoul being non-martyrish for you (grin).

**CrazyCarl**: Lol, glad that you love this story so much!. I do too; I think it's the best of my three. Thanks gadzooks for reading and reviewing; here's an update for you!

**intoxicated by eriks music**: Lol, savy, and thanks for the review! Glad you like it.


	12. Chapter 12

_Erik_

He watched Charles as he slept.

The girls were each quiet in their own beds, lost in peaceful dreams, so Erik could stand near Charles and gaze down upon his child. The white mask was in his pocket, and with one long-fingered hand Erik gently explored the contours of his own face as he stared down at the sweetly innocent visage of his sleeping son. Reaching out hesitantly, the man once known as the Phantom of the Opera brushed at the air just above Charles' baby-soft skin, tracing the boy's features without ever quite touching him.

His eyes closed when he drew back.

The quiet noise—not quite a snore, much nearer to a gentle sigh—Charles made in his sleep flooded Erik's ears. It was deceptively peaceful, soothing even, belying the tearstains that had dried upon the boy's cheeks. They were not left from an angry tantrum, for those kind of childish tears were swiftly scrubbed away. No, the tracks were instead the result of a young boy waking in the night and softly weeping himself back to sleep, too weary and worried to allow anyone into his pain far enough to comfort him. Erik knew such tears well; he shared with his son the inner reticence that had made them both creatures preferring to be alone in sorrow.

Those tears were his fault.

Not Raoul's; not Christine's. _Erik's_ fault. He had been too caught up with the joy of having his Angel near again to remember the delicacy of the situation they were in; he had repeatedly and selfishly provoked the man Charles held most dear, simply out of an old—and unfounded—jealousy. Erik, at least, knew that Christine's love for him was sure, despite his own doubts and fears. Raoul had no such comfort. The man was dealing with enough pain, his home burned and his place in his family threatened; Erik should not have added to it simply because Raoul had committed the _grievous sin_ of daring to love Christine.

He would do better.

Leaving behind the sleeping child that had so effortlessly stolen into his heart, Erik went in search of his son's Papa.

_Raoul_

There was quiet, deliberate footstep behind him; it was a man's tread, not the light step Christine or the girls, and it certainly was not Charles. Without turning from his seat at the kitchen table, Raoul questioned, "Don't you keep _any_ wine in this blasted house?"

He had not been able to sleep; the Louis-Philippe room, as comfortable as it was, held far too much history for Raoul to be at ease in it. That Charles had been conceived in that room, while he himself had never been allowed the privilege of spending a night in his wife's arms, was galling to Raoul, and he had taken himself into the kitchen in search of some form of relief.

"I do keep wine, but not for drinking oneself into insensibility." The master of the lake-house sat next to Raoul, apparently entirely at his ease in such close proximity to his rival; Raoul himself shifted uncomfortably. His discomfort increased when Erik continued, "And while morphine is remarkably adept at easing one's mind, I gave up that habit quite some time ago and do not have a supply on hand. I don't suppose you would indulge in it anyway."

"Some of us prefer to keep our wits about us, rather than abandoning them like beasts." Raoul retorted. There was a deep silence, then, with that word _beasts_ echoing in the room, but to his surprise Raoul realized that he did not feel threatened by Erik's restrained stillness. What on _earth_ was happening?

Erik's words, when they finally emerged, surprised Raoul further. "You should leave, you know. Take your family and get as far from Paris as possible," he said quietly.

An undignified snort burst out from Raoul. "Leave? Oh, yes, I can just _imagine_ a scene in which I suggest that she leave you. My bags would be packed and on the boat before I finished speaking." He sighed. "And even if, somehow, she agreed, she would not forget you. No matter how far I take her, no matter what I do, she will not forget."

"I'm sorry," Erik whispered. Raoul's spine straightened in shock. There were many things that he had never expected to hear from his adversary, but an apology was undoubtedly at the top of the list. A _sincere_ apology, even, for there was an undeniable depth of regret in those two simple words, a real sorrow filling that golden voice. "I wish . . ." the masked man trailed off with an impotent gesture of his hand.

"Me too."

They were silent for a few long minutes; Erik shifted, and two glasses and a bottle of wine appeared on the table. "A drink?" He asked lightly.

"Always the magician," Raoul noted, realizing that his own tone was dry and even bantering. "You implied that you were not going to give me a drink, if I recall."

Behind the mask, he could swear the other was smiling. "One must keep in practice. And I only said that I did not keep wine for the purpose of drinking oneself insensate." Erik began to pour the wine. "A couple of glasses in company, however . . ."

Raoul's voice became a little more serious as he contemplated his now-full glass. "It would shock her, you know, walking in on us sharing a drink."

"Shocks are good for Christine. They make her think things through, a habit she has a tendency to neglect."

The wine eased his throat; Raoul grinned a little. "Oh, yes. You know she cannot cook? Christine once decided to give our regular cook the day off along with the other servants; she was certain she could handle a dinner for just us three, and it was my birthday. She wanted to make a cake . . ."

Erik's laughter was startling; it was a sound of unrestrained amusement, rendered inviting and even musical by the pure tone of his voice. "May I ask whether the meal was recognizable as such?"

"I couldn't tell if it was _edible_, much less dinner! We ended up eating cold leftovers from lunch because even Christine couldn't eat her cooking. And the cook ended up throwing away the pan she had baked the cake in; no matter what we did, we could not get it out." Raoul sighed. "It was a good day, despite that. She almost . . ." He cut himself off. Raoul had no desire to discuss what Christine had almost given him, before she tore away.

The quiet drum of Erik's fingers on the tabletop caused Raoul to look up, but the masked man was staring evenly at the wall. "I had expected," he stated quietly, his voice almost hesitant, "Charles to have younger siblings."

Raoul stiffened. He couldn't possibly mean . . ."Whole or half?" Raoul spat sharply, setting his wine glass on the table with a harsh peal.

"For heaven's sake, she thought I was dead!" Erik answered. "She was _mourning _me. Which she certainly would not have been if we were having an affair behind your back. Do you have so little faith in her?"

"Yes," he retorted shortly, forcing himself to meet Erik's eyes. "When it comes to you, I have no faith in her at all."

Instead of anger, he was surprised to find pity in that yellow gaze. Finally, Erik answered quietly, "I cannot blame you. After all, I had no faith in her when it concerned _you_, either."

"Which was entirely justified, all things considering."

"I suppose it was," Erik replied. Another silence settled between them, less comfortable than before, but it was not as strained as it might have been. Erik had not exploded at Raoul, or threatened him, or flaunted his influence over Christine, and Raoul had not had serious thoughts about bringing the gendarmes down to the lair, which meant that for the two of them, this was an entirely civil conversation. They had both emptied their glasses and refilled them by the time Erik spoke again. "I should have stayed dead."

"Do you expect me to deny I wish you had?" Raoul queried tiredly. "Even so, I'm not sure anything would have ever changed between us if you remained a ghost." It was hard to admit that, but it was the truth. Christine had had five years to let go of her dead Angel, and she had shown no sign of being willing to do so, even if she'd had another fifty. Gritting his teeth, Raoul addressed Erik's earlier unspoken question. "Of course Charles does not have any siblings. How could he, when she will not let go of you?" Pushing his chair back, he swiftly drained his glass and left it negligently standing on the table. "Good night, Erik," Raoul said simply over his shoulder as he left the room. He knew his voice was still harsh, but he could not soften it.

Erik's reply was quiet and even, a curiously gentle "Good night" that somehow eased Raoul's spirit, just a little. It held a promise; not an oath of surrender, by any means, but an assurance that Erik would behave like a gentleman. For a man like Raoul, that was comforting.

_Marie_

Strangely reticent, Caron seemed unwilling to leave the nursery until Marie and Charles were with her. Marie eyed her older sister as they finished dressing the quiet child; there were tight lines around the seventeen-year-old's mouth. Normally, even at the manor, Caron would rise early and bring breakfast back to their room for the three of them, leaving Marie to get Charles dressed for the day—at least, that was their routine on the days Charles consented to behave. More often, the two of them wound up chasing him down after he had escaped them. Of course, they usually allowed such flights; they had found that if Charles was able to get his energy out in an early-morning play-chase, he was less likely to make a real escape attempt later in the day.

Caron walked slowly in the back as the three of them went toward the kitchen; Marie did not miss the way her sister went pale when she saw Erik quietly speaking with Christine over a cup of tea. The golden eyes flicked toward their little group and Erik stood swiftly, gesturing Marie and Charles to the table. Worried, Marie watched her sister tremble when the masked man moved toward her; she was almost shaking when he gently took her arm and led her into the hallway.

"She'll be alright," Christine murmured, and Marie flushed when she realized her concern had been so visible. "I hope you girls know I would never put you in danger. However, Erik did frighten Caron rather badly last night, and he wanted to apologize."

"She didn't say anything," Marie answered. As she fixed breakfast—to offset Christine's inability to successfully make more than a cold lunch, both of the girls had become adequate cooks over the last two years—she was striving to listen to the conversation going on in the hall. Marie could make out a few words in Erik's smooth voice, but none of them were close enough together to make any sense. Erik and Caron re-entered the kitchen just ahead of Raoul; the red-head was still a little stiff, but she was less white than she had been. Marie decided to let it drop; she would get the story out of Caron later.

Charles was fussy this morning; he would only eat if Raoul was the one coaxing him. The boy kept giving Erik questioning little glances, though, like he was demanding a silent answer. Finally, the child asked, "Where is the rose, Angel?"

Everyone froze.

Erik cleared his throat. "I . . . do not know, Charles." The faintest touch of a grim smile lit his voice. "I returned it to your father quite some time ago, that singing rose of his." This was said with a significant glance at Raoul; Marie remembered that the Comte had not been present for Erik's explanation last evening.

The young Vicomte turned to look at Raoul. "What did you do with it, Papa?" Raoul's blue eyes darted helplessly between Erik and Christine, begging for an answer. "Did you plant it?"

A slight smile lifted Raoul's mouth as he grasped onto that solution. "Yes, Charles. I planted it, in the most beautiful place in the world, where it would be watched over and protected."

Charles nodded, contemplating, and for a moment the little family believed that would be the end of it. A young boy's curiosity, however, is not something to be taken lightly. "Where did you plant it?"

This time it was Erik's tenor that answered him, falling into a rhythmic pattern Marie recognized; Christine used the same technique when she told stories. "East of the sun and west of the moon, in the land of twilight and fairytales, where such roses will bloom forever and a day before shimmering into the ice crystals that creep across your window on the coldest winter night. It was a white rose, Charles, which is why it will turn into an ice crystal; the red ones become the flaming scales of dragons." A melancholy note entered his tone. "I had a dragon once . . ."

Erik stopped speaking, and his five entranced listeners were allowed their breaths back. Marie shivered in delight; she loved stories, and Erik was obviously a master at telling them. No wonder Christine was so good at weaving tales, with such a teacher! Caron had told her as much of what had happened between these three five years ago as she could; Marie was anxious to hear the ending. It was good of Erik, to let the five of them stay in his home for the sake of an old love, even though she was now married; Marie had sighed at the hopeless romance of it all.

From where he had wriggled into Raoul's lap, Charles stared at his Angel with a bemused expression on his face. "Did you really have a dragon, Angel?"

The warm gold tones of Erik's laughter broke the remnants of the spell of sound he had woven upon them. "No, Charles. Even I could not hide a dragon in the basement of the opera-house," he explained lightly. "But it makes a pretty story, doesn't it?"

The boy nodded; his fingers had crept up to his mouth. Raoul gently pulled them out. "None of that, Charles," he murmured, his voice less stern than it might have been. "I think it's time for you to have a writing-lesson with your nurses, don't you?" Charles' complaints were minimal; he loved his writing lessons, and soon the three of them were ushered quite out of the kitchen.

_Christine_

Once the three youngest had left, the kitchen was silent. Christine allowed herself one moment of pure childish submersion, pressing the heels of her hands tiredly against her eyes, before looking up to gaze at the two men sitting side-by-side in front of her. She had forced herself to do what she rarely did last night, once Erik had left the music-room; she had gazed steadily back at the past and the present, doing her best to get into her loves' heads and looking at her own actions from their viewpoint.

Many of those views had not been pleasant.

There was an odd lack of tension between them, now, as she glanced between the two. Erik was reclining gracefully in his chair, steadily returning her gaze; Raoul had his arms folded across his chest and was looking off to the side. Christine settled her stare on the latter; hands cupping her chin, she waited until he looked at her. "Have I ever done anything but hurt you?" she asked sadly, once Raoul's blue eyes finally met her own.

He seemed surprised by both her tone and her choice of topic. Raoul pulled his gaze away from her again; evasively, he answered, "We have had happy times, Christine."

Before replying, she swiftly glanced at Erik; he nodded and quietly left the room. Standing, Christine came around the table to take his seat next to her husband. "That would be a no, then," she murmured. Hesitantly, not sure he would accept her touch, she reached out and laid her hand against his cheek. "If I could change things, I would, Raoul. I don't know how, but I would."

"Christine," he sighed and pulled away from her. "I don't want to discuss it."

She leaned her elbows on the table. "I know. But if we don't, then we will just remain here, forever in limbo."

"Can't you leave me alone, Christine?" Raoul growled. "For once in your life, can you not just leave me alone?"

Standing, she turned away from him a little. "I thought part of the problem was that I had left you alone rather too often."

Raoul was silent for a heartbeat; his voice was cold when he answered, but she knew he had every right to be angry with her. "And would you change that as well?"

"It was wrong of me to marry you," she answered quietly. "I know that now. Even though I love you—I do, Raoul, please don't laugh like that. Just not the way you wanted. It was wrong of me to marry you precisely because I _don't_ love you as a wife should love a husband." This was the difficult part; Christine swallowed hard. "And once I had married you, it was wicked of me to turn you away. You knew I would have Charles; you knew whose son he was. But Erik was dead and I should have stopped grieving for him a long time ago."

"You didn't, though. And he is not dead now."

Christine pressed her lips together. "No. I could not stop grieving for him; how do you cease to mourn part of your _soul_, Raoul?" Gentling her tone, she added, "And you're right; he is not dead, and now instead of a remarried widow, I find myself the _living bride_ of you both."

She turned to look at him; Raoul's eyes were still hurtful, but there was a small, rueful smile on his lips. "And you cannot have us both. So, Christine, we are back to where we started. The choice is yours."

It was then that Caron came into the room, Charles in tow, both of them looking about frantically for Marie.

_Marie_

It was dark.

She had left the other two in the nursery, pouring over letters, while she went to find a pail for lake-water. Caron was a strong believer in object lessons; she had asked Marie to get some water from the lake so that they could teach the boy about water that flowed under the ground. He had been asking endless questions about how Erik had managed to find a lake below the surface of the street, and none of them would have peace until Charles had an answer. The logical thing, of course, would have been to have Erik explain it, but the masked musician was nowhere to be found, and Marie didn't believe her sister would be anxious to find him anyway.

After locating a suitable bucket, Marie had carefully let herself out of the house and walked down to the shore. She had filled the bucket with the icy water and turned back to the house, but an outcropping of rock a little distance away had caught her eye. Wandering closer, Marie had discovered that the rock was, in fact, a carved gargoyle, exquisite in its detail. Thinking that Charles would love it, Marie had curiously walked past the statue, looking for others like it. She had found a few, and her aimless feet had taken her farther and farther from the light of the house, until quite suddenly she had realized she was lost in the dim shadows.

Panicking, Marie had dropped the bucket and spilled cold water all over her gown; she had picked the direction she thought she had come from and dashed forward, seeking a way out of the labyrinthine maze of tunnels and corridors she had found herself in. Half an hour later, she was now hopelessly lost and in a tunnel much darker than the one she had started in. Whimpering to herself, Marie sat on the floor and curled her arms around her knees, quietly crying into her damp skirt.

No one could possibly find her in the cellars of the Opera house.

She did not know how long she sat there; her body had grown numb, as had her mind, and all Marie could do was stare listlessly into the gloom, waiting for her spirit to dull to the point of oblivion. It was so cold . . . and so dark . . .

Points of yellow appeared, like two stars shining suddenly in a night sky. Marie blinked and they were gone; she must have been dreaming. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes, and so did not see the tall dark shape that stooped down to her; she only felt cold arms gathering her up, and could not help but wonder if this was what it meant to die.

Warmth surrounded her and she woke; there were soft comforting shapes around her, blankets and pillows possessed of a heavenly silkiness. Marie sank further into them, not bothering to open her eyes; alive or dead, she was finally warm.

The voice that spoke in her ear was soothing and gentle, its heartbreaking beauty all the deeper for the masculine sense of assurance it gave to her. Marie flinched when cold hands lifted her head, but the voice eased her fear and she drank what was put to her lips. Not scalding, but not cool, the herbal tea spread its peaceful heat down into her center, and she sighed with delight as the laudanum in it sent her back to sleep.

_Erik_

"She'll live," he said quietly, coming into the music room where his other houseguests were anxiously waiting. Erik studiously ignored the pang he felt—still!—to see Christine sitting close to Raoul's side, holding his hand tightly; there were more important things for him to be worrying about. Caron drew his attention to her when she stood; she was shaking. Erik mentally berated himself for frightening her so last night; he had been sick to death of women fearing his face long before he built this house, and her reaction had been an unpleasant reminder of his past.

Of course, his angry use of his magician's skills to scare her further hadn't helped any, either. No apology made the morning after, no matter how softly rendered, could atone for such a fright.

"Monsieur?" Caron asked softly; Erik made his gaze as gentle as he possibly could when he turned to look at her. She was pale, her freckles standing out starkly on her otherwise fair skin; the disappearance of her younger sister had shaken her deeply. His heart filled with pity for the child—she certainly would feel responsible for Marie's wandering off. With a small gesture he bade her to continue. "May I see her?" The redhead's voice was still quiet, nearly a whisper.

Erik nodded. "She sleeps, but you may see her. Try not to wake her." He stepped aside and gestured into the warm little drawing room where he had placed the unconscious girl. With a small cry, Caron dashed out of the music-room.

"Wouldn't it be best to let her rest?" Christine asked, looking up at him with a worried expression.

He couldn't help chuckling softly, just a little. "She'll sleep, Christine," Erik told her wryly, thinking of the times his protégé had been put through the indignity of his sleeping potions.

"Oh," she murmured, a smile twisting her lips briefly; apparently Christine had remembered his fondness for using laudanum as well. She glanced over to Charles; though it was only mid-afternoon, the boy was stretched out on the divan, fast asleep. Christine raised an inquiring eyebrow at Erik.

"No," he retorted indignantly, "I had nothing to do with that."

She just smiled.

**-Chapter End-**

**A/N**: Grr! I wrote 90 percentof this late Friday night, but the bloody campus computer labs were all closed this weekend because school starts Monday, so I couldn't post until today! Heh, do you like quick updates? This is a one-time thing . . . it wrote itself in the late hours of the night, which means that it is either good or rather awful. Please tell me which (honestly) and how you think the character relationships are going . . . (grin)

I know that there are some . . . more adult . . . topics discussed in this phic, particularly this chapter, but I cannot ignore the fact that Erik and Christine have a son, or the fact that the Chagny marriage is unconsummated, because both of those issues have a great deal of bearing on how the characters are feeling. I don't write smut—at all—and will try to deal with these topics as tastefully as possible, but they do have to be dealt with, which is most of the reason I rated this phic PG-13. Just a note.

It rather amuses me that Marie doesn't get that the "story" hasn't ended yet. Of course she knows that Erik is Charles' father, but I don't think the idea that Christine might _now_ love someone other than her husband has quite entered the girl's mind yet, heh. Well, toodles!

**Phantomluvr**: Lol, I might have problems denying such a kiss also—but she _is_ married, after all, and Chrissy is a good 19th-century girl. Thanks for reading!

**Mominator:** I can _HEAR_ you saying ECR after this chapter. I can just hear it. But nope, they're just (slightly) getting along right now.

Yes . . . the _borrowed_ line . . . heh, sorry, when I sent you the bit of that last chapter to look over I put in a comment saying "do you mind?" but I must have forgotten to tell you to put 'view comments' on in Word. Oopsies. . . forgive me since I'm updating? Heh, kidding. Thanks for your review (as ever!); I was quite fond of the rose explanation myself, lol.

**Naomipoe**: Hey, wow, I feel special! CL recommending this to you! Awesome (thanks, CL). Lol, yeah, I love my Erik too. Thanks bunches and bunches for reading and reviewing . . . er . . . did I review the last chapter of Attack of the Muses? Hmm. I will have to check. Yummy angst? Oh, you just wait . . . .

**DarkMoonLightBright**: Thanks! Yeah, after this updates will DEFINITELY be slower . . . I mean it this time! Lol, muchas gracias for reading and reviewing, glad you like it!

**Hisinspiration**: Hey, I'm glad you like Charles—he's actually kind of hard for me to write, since my own little brother hasn't been four since I was nine. He's a cutie, though, isn't he? Just love the kid. And thanks for reading; here's another update for you!

**Onelastchance:** lol, short and sweet. I liked your review. Thanks a billion! Here's some more . . .

**phantomlovin4ever**: heh, how does updating three days later sound? Good to you? Good. Of course, this will NEVER happen again—ever—but it flowed and so I wrote. Hope you like; thanks!

**intoxicated by eriks music**: (glomps brownie with sprinkles) Hey, thanks, savy!

**Clever Lass**: Billions of Erik dolls (lol, I guess in phic this you might prefer Raoul dolls . . .) for your great review—merci, merci! I love it when you make me think things through and make sure I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing. Hope that Erik is a little more congenial in this chapter; you guys are _not_ supposed to be rooting for an RC ending, which means I have a few things to look at seriously. My deepest thanks for your honesty—how else am I supposed to know what I need to be looking at? Be talking to you later!


	13. Chapter 13

_Christine_

The Louis-Philippe room had not changed; in five years, Erik had not allowed dust or grime to triumph there, nor had he ceased periodically replacing the fresh white lilies on her mantle or the vanilla-rose sachets in her dresser. Christine opened those drawers now, allowing the sweet scents to reach out into the air and curl around her in gentle wisps, bringing with them a deep peace that she had not felt since entering Erik's home. This room, with its soft smells and silk gowns, silver hairbrushes and old, smooth wood, was home to Christine; it had been the first place she felt whole after her father's death. Her dressing-room at the Opera house and her small apartment nearby had never been homes; it was the loneliness she felt in those places, the sense of merely existing, that had contributed to the emptiness which first attracted Erik to her voice.

In this room, though, she had changed. Every bit of furniture, each candlestick and hanging, the precise shadings and fabrics of every single beautiful dress in the wardrobe had been chosen for her and her alone. Never outside of the Louis-Philippe room had Christine felt so utterly at place in her surroundings, never so well-known or so loved. That had been the first time she truly realized the extent of Erik's love for her, when she entered this tiny, separate apartment and knew that it was part of her own self. He had told her of his feelings earlier, but stepping into the peace of this room, Christine had _felt _his love, soul-deep and shattering. She had cried herself to sleep that first night, and the tears had not been tears of sorrow, either for her kidnapping or her fallen Angel.

The tears had come from tasting love so deep it hurt.

She did not cry now, as she sat at the dresser and stared into her mirror. This room had seen other metamorphoses, and other tears, but the woman staring back at her with even blue eyes was kinder and gentler for every moment spent within these walls.

And she was no longer a child, as she had still been when she left five years past, unknowingly carrying a precious new life.

Christine had been acting childish.

True, it was hard, and it hurt—every moment watching Erik and Raoul, knowing that she was bound once more to wound at least one of them, no matter what she chose. And she felt an ache within her heart for the last five years, years which should have been spent with Erik, years in which Raoul could have been free and maybe even happy. Even with Erik now, things were not easy; Christine still viewed Erik's deception as a betrayal, but she knew he had only done what he believed best for all of them. It was easy to forgive him five years of mourning when she had surely given him eons of pain; of the times they had betrayed each other, in Christine's eyes her crimes would always be the worse.

But nothing justified her own behavior. The things she had said to Raoul cut Christine's own heart; the way she had callously turned aside Caron's fears to comfort Erik made her cringe in self-recrimination. She could not heal the mistakes of the past; she had learned that long ago.

She could, however, make sure that there were no such mistakes in her future.

Christine knew—she had always known—what choice she would make. As long as there was a chance for their love, as long as either of them drew breath, _her_ choice was as it had always been and always would be.

Erik.

For her heart, for her soul, there would never be another. But Christine was not making this decision for her sake; in the end, what she wanted, no matter how deeply, was not important. And though she loved them both, Erik and Raoul's wishes had no bearing on her choice, because she was not deciding for them.

She was choosing for Charles.

And for Charles . . .

Christine closed her eyes and leaned her head down to rest against the vanity's wooden surface, soft with age, as she considered her son's future.

"Raoul?"

Erik and Raoul, who were quietly sitting at the kitchen table, looked up at Christine's entrance. Similar looks of apprehension crossed both their faces before Raoul stood and came close to her. "Yes, Christine?"

Habit made Christine bite her lip, but she forced herself to relax. Meeting his cautious gaze, she simply said, "I need to talk to you. Could you wait in the sitting room?" With Marie lying in the music-room and Caron close by her sister's side, the small, out-of-the-way sitting room was the only part of Erik's house where they would have privacy. Raoul nodded and brushed past her; glancing at Erik, Christine quietly asked, "How is Marie?"

His gaze was long and even before he answered, in as soft a tone as she had used, "She will recover well."

A painful half-smile lifted Christine's mouth; they remained for a moment, simply drinking in the other's presence as though for the last time, before she turned and followed Raoul out of the room.

Set just off the makeshift nursery, the sitting room was quiet and peaceful; Erik had restrained his more flagrant design tendencies while creating it, resulting in a small, comfortable room of perfect elegance and unusual beauty. Antique silver, snowy white, and navy blue were the reigning colors, offset by graceful furniture in dark, smooth wood. Less used than the rest of the house, the sitting room was chilly despite the fire quietly cackling in its grate.

Raoul stood at the mantel, and Christine watched as he carefully lifted a delicate glass statue from the wood to examine it more closely. She waited until he had set the sharply edged rose down before she spoke; startling him into shattering the piece would hardly be an ideal way to begin this conversation.

"Raoul." He turned when she said his name; slowly, Christine walked forward until she stood squarely in front of him. Gently, she lifted her hand to his cheek. "Oh, Raoul. You have done so much for me, for Charles." Tears began to form in her eyes, but Christine made herself continue to meet Raoul's gaze; he deserved her full attention, now most of all. "I know you love him," she whispered, "even as much as if he were your own."

"I do, Christine. I always have. I always will." Raoul took her hand between his, his touch tender.

"I know you would, Raoul."

He stepped away from her then, his features tightening in pain. "Would," he repeated flatly. "So you have made your decision. I can't say I'm surprised."

"Raoul, I will _never_ be able to repay you for the love you have given us these last five years. I know that it is nothing—less than nothing—in comparison, but all I can give you is your freedom." Christine swallowed hard, hating herself for hurting him.

"Can I at least ask why?" Raoul answered. He turned away from her to study the rose on the mantel once more. "Not," he added softly, "as though I don't already know the reason."

"You, more than anyone, deserve to hear why."

He glanced at her again, a wry cast to his features. "I thought so, too."

Christine came up beside him and lightly ran her fingertips along the petals of the glass rose. "I know that you think I'm doing this for me—because of Erik. That's what it must look like, especially to you."

"Aren't you? Isn't it?"

"There are many reasons. Some are for you, and some are for me, and some are for him—but greatest of them, the one that made my decision, is for Charles." She lightly touched his chin, drew his attention back to her. "You could not have loved him more, Raoul. But there is so much that neither you nor I understand in his mind. Given a choice, how can I let him grow up believing he is the only one who thinks the way he does? Charles needs to know Erik, Raoul. He _needs_ to. You said it yourself, a few days ago; Charles deserves to know his father. And prolonging our current arrangements would do more harm than good to everyone concerned.

"And you—Raoul, you deserve to have your own life." Disgust at her own actions of the past five years twisted her mouth. "I was never what I should have been for you. You needed someone who loved only you, and you gave that up for me and for my son." Hesitantly, Christine reached out to him, running her fingers lightly down his cheek in a farewell when he did not pull away. "Thank you, dear friend. Thank you more than words can say, but for all our sakes, it's time for me to set you free."

Raoul nodded and stepped out of reach, heading towards the door. His voice was rough with unshed tears when he stopped, just inside the doorway, to ask her, "What about the girls?"

"I'll find them another position, somewhere. I can't turn them out, Raoul, but…I don't think it would be wise for me to keep them here, either."

"No, it likely would not." He looked away from her for a moment. "Charles would have made an excellent Comte."

"Yes," Christine answered quietly. "He would have."

Now Raoul did turn to meet her eyes. "And you honestly believe that he will fare better as a child of the Phantom than as the heir to the Chagny estates."

"I'm sorry, Raoul, but yes. I do."

He nodded in resigned acceptance. "Then I guess all that's left is for me to tell him goodbye."

Christine closed her eyes and swallowed, hard. "He'll miss you," she whispered to Raoul's back as he left the room. "And so will I."

_Erik_

He watched as she came into the kitchen; there were tearstains left on her cheeks, but her eyes were calm. Christine came to him, taking his long, skeletal hand in hers and gently caressing his fingers. Erik had forced himself not to listen into the conversation in the sitting-room; from the peace of her features, he had to assume that some sort of decision had been reached.

Erik would miss the boy. What he wouldn't give, for the opportunity to raise Charles with the love that Erik himself had not experienced until far too late in life; he longed to teach his son all he knew of music and beauty and learning, while sparing Charles the cruelty of the world that had accompanied so much of Erik's own learning. But Christine had clearly come to her senses; she had realized that the doted-upon son of a Comte would have many more opportunities than the child of an old ghost.

"When will you leave?" Best to slice the knife through his heart quickly, so that he wouldn't feel the pain until the Chagny family was long out of reach.

Christine had been watching his hand as she tenderly massaged the joints; now her eyes rose to meet his, still even and peaceful. "Raoul is packing his things," she replied softly.

"Soon, then." She had meant, of course, _their_ things.

"Yes," Christine answered. "We should be able to get the annulment this afternoon."

Erik tightened his fingers into a vice around her tiny hands. "You _what_?" he demanded, certain that his extraordinary hearing was failing him at last. "Christine," Erik warned in a low voice when she didn't speak. He resisted, as always, the urge to shake her. "Christine de Chagny, I could have sworn that you just mentioned the word 'annulment'. I am quite sure that I am mistaken, however, because you cannot _possibly_ be thinking of staying here with me."

Now the calmness of her face dissipated a little; not into pain, as he had been half-expecting, but into fire. "No, Erik," Christine retorted smoothly. "I am not _thinking_ of stay here with you. I _am_. And don't you dare try to tell me that this is the wrong decision for me and our son, or that you won't let us live with you. We both know you would be lying."

"It is the wrong decision." He chose to ignore the second half of that statement; it was strange, after five years apart, how well she knew him. Erik's first thought _had_ been to tell her that they couldn't stay with him, though he knew that if she pressed the issue at all, he would be helpless to deny her wishes.

Christine shook her head at him. "Not for me. Not for Charles." When he didn't answer, she looked up at him coyly, the warmth of her voice making him shudder. "Don't you _want_ me with you, Erik?"

He leaned down threateningly, letting his golden eyes pierce her gaze. "Cease playing games with me this instant, woman, or I swear . . ."

Lips twitching in amusement, Christine asked, "Yes?"

"That I will adore you until the day that I die," he finished softly, leaning close to her. "Christine, please, do you mean this? You will stay?" Unable to meet her suddenly soft stare, Erik glanced down. "I will be able to raise my son?" Needing reassurance of her sincerity, he forced himself to look back into her gentle blue eyes.

"Yes," Christine whispered, and then it was her turn to look away. "And . . . if you wish . . . his brothers and sisters."

Unable to speak, Erik gathered his singing rose into his arms and held her tightly.

**Author's Note**:

Apparently, I am an incurable liar. Or, at the very least, powerless to resist Erik when he chooses to drag me back into his world.

So yes, to all you wonderful, wonderful people who have reviewed and asked for updates: I am finishing this story. Things may not happen in quite the same sequence as I had originally planned, but the majority of them will still happen. I hope that you have enjoyed this chapter, and that Christine's choice both made sense to you and seemed realistic. If not, please—I love detailed reviews. Please, tell me what felt right—or wrong—about the elements in this update, so that I can know what's working for you. Thank you all so much!

P.S. And yes, I will be finishing my other stories—Voice is already completed and posted, with a sequel (I'm terrible, I know) going, and Gloriosa should have another post up within the next week. Updates will be SLOW, because I'm in school again, but they'll be there.

**Oh Shut up Savy**: Thanks as always! I'm glad you're enjoying it. Yes, a little ECR, but . . . I think this chapter fixed that problem rather permanently.

**naomipoe**: Eeerm. Gymnastics. Maybe I should have waited to post, as there are probably not enough of those in this chapter. I hope that I will be able to work things out in such a way in later chapters that things make sense; I can't live with RC or EOW, I just can't, so . . .

And thank you, for your support of my decision to leave—it is SO difficult to quit, isn't it? You can tell that I'm failing . . . oh, btw, if you ever want to chat, my msn username is Thank you! Seriously, it's awesome to get a nice long review like that—and I'm glad that you like the details. I'm a big fan of the 'rose' explanation myself ;)

**DarkmoonlightBright**: Here's another chapter for you—thank you for your review!

**Terpsichore314**: snort LOL. No, unfortunately, I can't script your conversations with your husband. Sorry! And I hope that their fights aren't coming across as too civil . . . Thanks!

**Mominator**: Thank you, thank you, always for your lovely reviews. I've never seen Christine as much of a cook, lol, so that part of the conversation seemed to fit pretty well. I mean, she's really all they have in common, other than being French. And I'm kicking your ECR ideas firmly in the behind with this chapter. :D

**hisinspiration**: Thank you! No, Charles doesn't know yet . . . mwuahahaha. Lol, the singing rose thing seems to be pretty popular—I'm glad you all liked it so much! Me too :)

**phantomlovin4ever**: Thank you, steph. And look! Voice is finished, and has a sequel going :D Just for you.

**angelmuse**: Wait and see, m'dear, wait and see. And thanks; I love the rose and nightingale part, too :D Wow, you read it in one sitting? Wow. Thanks evermuch, as always!

**Phantomluvr**: Thank you for supporting my leaving . . . though, as we can all see, it didn't last long. sigh I'm quitting when they're done, I swear I am.

**Phantomphile**: Oh dear . . . huh, the email address should still be right, I'm getting email from here there . . . uhoh. And so, so very sorry for not answering this! I turned off my review notification, but I should have been checking just in case. A million apologies! If you still want the summary, I will send it to you—though, as you will now have the story . . . shrug

**northern lights**: Thank you so, so very much for your kind words! Wow. And please, forgive me for not responding to you; I had my review replies turned off, and so did not see your request. Unless I did see it later and answered? I hope I did, but if not, again, sorry. I should have been checking. I hope that you find this chapter as satisfactory as you did the others; and once more, I would just like to say thanks for that incredible review, and apologize for not answering.

**CleverLass**: Thank you for running through the first bit of this! You gave me the necessary confidence to continue it. Brava, m'dear, brava, and merci!

**MelodysSnog**: _wink_. Thanks for your enthusiasm, my ego booster:) Hope you like!


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